What Dreams May Come
by Raven2687
Summary: CHAPTER 12 up! Years have separated them, but Rogue and Remy meet again. And nothing is the same. The world has changed, and they find themselves caught between forces seen and unseen. SEQUEL to Demon in my View. Not a typical shipper story.
1. Shadows and Dreams

**Chapter 1 – Shadows and Dreams**

Towers of black smoke billowed above the city's scorched grass and ashen sand. Despite the rather early hour, everything seemed veiled in shadow, from the nearby buildings of shrapnel-torn walls to the wide expanse of monotonously flat desert beyond. Clouds of dust and sand undulated endlessly in eye-scratching dances of wind. In the evacuated city sector, gunshots blasted and wounded men cried in pain.

A group of U.S. Marines clustered behind a severely damaged Hummer while trying to fend off an unexpected attack. Several suffered bullet wounds; one had a broken leg. Fusillades of bullets rained upon them while they endeavored futilely to fight back.

The Captain gritted his teeth, angry at this unprepared-for attack, knowing any moment the fuel tank could be hit and all of his men die—but there was no way for them to retreat, no visible end to their trap. A bullet rebounded from nearby rubble and the Captain ducked while uttering a curse, not wishing to test the Kevlar of his helmet.

His corporal was still trying to establish a radio connection, fidgeting about his comm. unit and shouting into its mouth piece—but to now avail. Help would not be coming.

The Captain adjusted his desert goggles, trying to see through the hazing sandstorm that had settled upon the city. The patrol had been routine, an attack unexpected. They should have known better. These Iraqi insurgents were desperate when they were so close to losing.

The Captain looked around at the devastation while reloading his automatic rifle; he wondered if the enemy despaired at killing their own people in the crossfire. He drew a breath and prayed they wouldn't acquire more grenades any time soon.

Bullets ricocheted off the armored Hummer like the constant droning of a metronome, counting off the seconds of his demise. He steadied his breathing, forcing calm, vowing that if he was to die, he would die with honor, valor, and not without a fight.

Gripping his gun tightly, he gestured towards the only two of his men with weapons. At his signal, all three shot to their feet, unprotected and ready to face imminent death or astounding victory.

It was neither.

"Uh…Cap'n?" a private said, confused and lowering his weapon.

He risked sand in the eyes by removing his goggles to see better. "What the…."

Gunshots still rang in the air, but the firefight had turned away from them. Through the hazy clouds of sandiness little could be seen except shadows and small sparks from minor explosions. Bodily shapes moved in a flurry, some flying in strange directions, others simply falling from injury. But there was one in the melee that remained surreally poised and steady.

The Captain squinted.

Cries could be heard from where the insurgents were no doubt situated. Their shouts ranged from ejaculations of surprise, awe, pain—

And fear.

Lightning suddenly lashed the ground from nowhere, striking in places they could not see. With an ear-splitting crash, an enormous ball of fire exploded so near to the soldiers, they could feel the heat. The boiling, tumultuous tower of flame rolled higher and higher into the air until it finally began to dissipate. Without further prelude, an armload of automatic weapons flew out of the smoky area, landing in the sand within arm's reach.

The Captain signaled his unarmed men to quickly seize them. Once the able-bodied Marines were fully armed, they stood ready for onslaught. There was no guarantee that whatever had attacked the Iraqis would not attack them, and in such a mutated, crazy world, they prepared themselves for the worst.

Silence had settled over the area. All movement had ceased. The aftermath smoke began to clear and the soldiers could soon make out a solitary figure walking towards them.

The Marines raised their weapons.

"Hold," the Captain ordered. He could hardly believe his eyes.

The hazy figure drew nearer, coming into view as slender and nubile, wrapped in a black, full body-hugging suit. Twin streaks of dark silver crisscrossed over the chest and knee-high combat boots. It was a young woman, one whose mere appearance rendered each well-trained, well-fought Marine slack-jawed and gawking. Her auburn hair was tied in a pony tail, white bangs fluttering around her face. But her eyes were glowing, white and cloudy like a soulless demon.

The Captain clutched his weapon tightly, still uncertain.

She raised one arm and upon lowering it, the winds calmed and the air became free of sand and dust. Slowly, the white clouds over her eyes receded, leaving behind a pair of lushly bright emerald-greens.

The Marines removed their goggles to attain a better view. A few drew in their breath as she came within speaking distance. They watched as though she was a beautiful mirage that might any moment disappear. And then she spoke:

"Ah didn't exactly come here ta rescue soldiers." A smirk played across her divinely stunning face.

All the men were frozen in shock. _This_ had taken out all their attackers? By herself?

The Captain was the first to recover. "Ma'am, I'm going to need some identification or clearance of some sort. Civilians…." He said the word doubtfully "…aren't allowed to be wandering around—"

"Ah'm no civilian, hon," she cut him off. "And Ah wasn't wanderin' around either. You're just lucky my mission brought me here."

"You're one of them, aren't you," one of the soldiers suddenly asked, "a mutant?"

Rogue remained silent, affirming the conjecture. She wondered what their reaction would be and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Much to her surprise, nobody recoiled in fear or disgust. In contrast, they all seemed relieved that she was there. It was not a reaction she was used to, especially after years of experiencing the exact opposite.

"We're grateful for the help, ma'am," the Captain said. "Don't know how you took 'em all out but I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time ya'll be more—aak!" She jerked forward as a bullet tore through her flesh. With a spray of bright red blood, she fell motionless onto the sand.

The Marines immediately scattered for cover as another assault came their way, makeshift armored vehicles approaching rapidly from alleys and around buildings. The Captain fired his rounds and found that he furiously wished to pummel whatever brute would shoot an unarmed woman. In the back, no less.

This time they had a grenade launcher. The Captain watched as two of his men were blown away by an explosion that put several others on fire. Luckily they rolled upon the sand to stifle the flames. And then, to his utter and complete shock, the woman began to get up. The wound at her side had ceased bleeding, had disappeared altogether, leaving behind only a tear in her uniform and a splotch of red on the road.

Rogue stood to her full height, green eyes narrowed. All bullets and projectiles suddenly stopped in midair, hovered in a surreal, discontinuous wall on the vertical plane she occupied. Then without warning the wall broke away, every bit of metal flying in the direction of the attackers.

Screams and yells broke out among the insurgents, their own bullets and grenades assaulting their ranks.

Rogue slowly closed her eyes, sifting through the psyches within her for the one she wanted to use. When she opened them, a crimson beam of laser heat lashed whichever way she gazed. The optic blast seared the ground, cut through vehicle armor, and burned flesh beyond third degree. She tried very hard not to do too much damage. X-Men never killed. But these bastards deserved every bit of hurt they felt….

All the while the Marines watched in complete awe. Every one of them had heard of mutants and their special powers, but none knew that one of them could possess such variations. Was she a mutant among mutants?

Rogue stopped the optic blast as easily as she started it, peering around at the remaining fighters. They were natives to the country, guerillas fighting for a cause they believed righteous enough to die for. She had to admire that sort of conviction, even if these were the exact fanatics that were broadcasting executions of their own people unfortunate enough to be discovered mutant. That had been the very reason she and her team had arrived in Hadithah, while Iraq struggled to reconstruct itself and the Americans fought to remove insurrectionary threats.

The ground beneath her began to shake, knocking the remaining guerillas off their feet. Rogue floated off her feet, looking around. When she spotted him atop a nearby building, she cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "About time!" She was sure he didn't hear.

Avalanche held his arms outstretched, curling his fingers in exertion. Cracks erupted in jagged patterns along the desert ground. The insurgents shouted in fear of doomsday, some falling into the fissures.

The sound of an approaching helicopter mingled with shouts of men and rumblings of the earth.

From the skies flew a streak of flame, a red and black figure soaring towards Avalanche. It hefted him off the building, just as the chopper neared the vicinity.

Avalanche eased the earthquakes away for the helicopter to land. He and Sunfire reached ground beside it and began securing the few remaining threats in the area.

Out of the chopper ejected a medical team and rescue squad that rushed immediately to the wounded Marines. Following them came a tall mutant whose very skin comprised of impenetrable organic steel. His metallic-white eyes stared into an unfortunate guerilla nearby, striking terror into the man as he effortlessly lifted him off the ground.

"Leave him be, Colossus," a Scottish voice said wearily. "No use scaring the wits out of the lad."

"As you wish, Banshee."

The Iraqi, once released, fainted on the ground.

Rogue was already some ways off, scanning the area for the target. She had not located him among those she previously debilitated, but his scent was now very near. The tattered Iraqi street was littered with rubble and abandoned vehicles, but one of them hid exactly what she wanted. Her use of Wolverine's power magnified the criminal's stench to a very unpleasant potency.

Landing gracefully on the ground, she followed her nose and moved towards an upturned cargo truck. A faint blue glow surrounded the vehicle as she drew nearer. Thoroughly hexed, the truck began to shake and rattle frighteningly. A shout erupted from underneath it, followed by cries of alarm.

Rogue abruptly waved her hand and the cargo truck flipped backwards twice. It rolled along the sandy road, throwing up clouds of dust and debris.

A smirk played across her face. "Not really good at hide-and-seek, are ya?" she called. She approached with deliberate and steady steps, eyes never leaving the huddled figure on the ground. Behind the diffusing cloud of dust, the target coughed and rubbed his eyes.

Rogue stretched her fingers, readying herself to cast a hex and paralyze the target until the others arrived. She poised her arms, palms cackling with glowing blue energy. The golden dust around settled and gave her a clear view. She moved to strike as the man stood, turned to face her—

And she froze. _No_…_it can't be…._ A thousand thoughts dashed through her mind; her mouth fell ajar, her eyes widened, brow corrugating in distress. All her hexing powers drained away, arms dropping to her sides in utter, horrified shock.

"Chere," he said, that lighthearted smirk—as unchanged as the last time he had teased her with it—playing across his face. "Been a long time gone, non?"

Rogue blinked several times, feeling as though a cloud had settled over her senses. It was outrageous; it was unprecedented; it was impossible. "R-Remy?" To say his name… She felt a sharp pang in her chest, not sure whether it was longing, sadness, anger, resentment, despair…or hundreds of other things that now resurfaced after years of burial.

He brushed dust off his clothes—a derelict insurgent uniform—and ran a hand through his rich brown hair. "Must say, awkward situation t'meet." When he looked at her his crimson-ebony eyes twinkled with that playful mischief she knew all too well. "Y' go'n' turn me in, chere?"

Rogue struggled to steady her breathing, the hammering of her heart. After so long, after so much, _this _was what he said? _This_ was how he acted? It was all so wrong, so wrong tears welled in her eyes despite how much she hated herself for it. Weak. She had always been weak around him.

"Don' go doin' dat, now," he groaned. "Chin up, eh? Dis ain't no problem we can't solve."

"How can you say that?" Rogue exclaimed through a pained hiss. "You—you're one of the enemy!" How could he be the target? Unless it was his alias, his cover. But she had _smelled_ the man and…. It hardly mattered at the moment. Her senses were a muddled mess.

He shook his head, "Dat your opinion, chere."

Rogue shook her head, clutching both sides of her skull as her composure began to crumble, as the psyches began to reel. She took several steps back, staring at him in disbelief. How could he act so apathetic towards her now, after all that had happened, after all that had been said—no matter how long ago it was. "Remy, you….Ah can't believe this. You're not here…. Ah've lost it."

He chuckled—chuckled at her expense—and said, "M'as much here as you are, p'tite. Now, if y'aren't go'n' help me escape, might s'well get out o' m'way."

Rogue deliberately blocked his path, suddenly hell bent on resolving the mystery. She knew whatever happened to him in the past few years to lead him down this course, there had to be viable explanations. The psyches in her mind returned to caches of usable energy as she regained her composure through determination. With a surge of telepathy, she shoved him backwards a few steps, "You aren't going anywhere until Ah get some answers."

He sighed in exasperation, "Don' make dis difficult, chere."

"Ah let you leave once, Remy. Ah've learned a lot since then."

He scoffed disdainfully and shook his head, "Obviously not enough." In one swift movement he pulled a gun from inside his uniform, purposefully cocking it. "I know y'got special powers, girl, but dey won' save y'from a hole in de head."

The barrel of the gun hovered a few inches from her face. Rogue stared at him, shocked beyond reaction, wretched beyond description. Remy was going to shoot her. She would die at his side, by his hands, at that moment. And as ridiculously impossible as it seemed, she realized that if he wanted her dead, there was no reason to stay alive, to fight. There was no other hope, even if he had saved her life before—in so many ways no one else could—he wanted her gone now. She slowly closed her eyes, feeling hazy and miserable, never more confused.

He hesitated a moment, and Rogue felt a shadow fall over them, blocking out the sun that beat upon the deserted city.

"What de…."

The ground began to shake. And the gun went off.

Rogue felt the bullet whiz by her ear, barely missing her head. With a gasp of relief? disappointment? she lost her balance and collapsed to the quivering ground. She felt brief gusts of wind against her face as a pair of angelic wings flew by. Her eyes saw Remy tackled by a golden-haired angel and the two were soon rolling upon the sandy, rattling road.

"Rogue! Rogue, snap out of it!"

"What has happened to her?"

"It's Seyyid—I think he's a mutant. Cut the quakes, Lance!"

Without forewarning, a scream erupted from her throat. Avalanche, Colossus, and Sunfire were all thrown aside as a burst of energy ignited around Rogue. Breathing hard, she rubbed her eyes and looked around, feeling as though she was crawling out of a dream.

"Lass!" Banshee landed beside her. "Are ye injured?"

Rogue didn't answer him, occupied with gaping at Angel's opponent. "No…he was—he was…." He was not Remy, but a lanky Iraqi with curly black hair and angry eyes of dark pits. A cold chill crept into her stomach and she suddenly wanted to heave.

Angel tossed Colossus the handgun, who crushed it in his hand, and jerked the prisoner to his feet. Cuffing his hands with a brace, Angel said, "Naaman Kashif Seyyid, you are under arrest for terrorist leadership and publicized crimes against humanity."

Rogue allowed Banshee to help her to her feet. She stared at Seyyid as Angel and Colossus dragged him past; the man looked exactly like in the snapshots the team had been debriefed with only days ago. She had also been given his scent from his former Iraqi Republican Guard beret. And still he had fooled her.

"Lass, how are ye feelin'? No one knew Seyyid was a mutant. He pulled an illusion on ye."

Illusion. Nothing but her mind. Like it always was.

"Rogue?"

"What—Ah mean, Ah'm fine, Sean. Ah'm fine."

"Ye don't look it, goirl," Banshee said. He watched her steadily as they moved back towards the secured area. More U.S. helicopters were landing, picking up wounded Marines and ejecting fresh soldiers to continue area patrol.

Rogue used her hand as a visor against the sun. The chopper gusts blew sand everywhere and stifled sound with the loud fanning of their blades, adding to the frenzy. Her eyes sought out Naaman Seyyid, secured by Colossus while Angel fastened a mutant restraining collar around his neck. She shivered noticeably, remembering how real the illusion had seemed, had felt, how it had rendered her a muddled mess.

"Listen Rogue, I've been meaning to have a talk with ye for a while now."

She cocked her head towards Sean, frowning. "About what?"

"Yer…performance."

"Have Ah messed up or somethin'? Is my work shoddy?'

"No no no, nothing like that." She watched the immutably composed Banshee scratch his head in discomfort as he searched for the right words. "I've noticed…a change in ye these past months, since Psylocke left. Ye've been acting reclusive, always daydreaming and off in yer own world. And all these stunts ye've been pulling lately, ditching the team, going _rogue_ all the time…well, it isn't safe, goirl. Look what almost happened today."

Rogue crossed her arms, returned to observing the detainment of Seyyid. "What are you tryin' to say, Sean."

He watched her carefully, "I think you know. Two years is a long time to be away. Ye need to be…regrounded, if ye will."

Rogue nodded, acknowledging his words with complete understanding of their meaning.

Naaman Seyyid was successfully detained and placed on a departing helicopter with Angel and Colossus as his guards. Rogue followed Banshee aboard the jet, strapping herself in beside Avalanche and Sunfire. She ignored their questioning looks, focusing her gaze out the chopper window.

As the helicopter rose from the ground, she watched the figures below grow smaller and smaller until they were no longer visible. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It felt as though she, too, had just decidedly left something behind.

♠

♥

♣

♦

Manhattan Island, New York City, New York – Ten Days Later

Cameras flashed relentlessly everywhere, blinding his eyes in fleeting instants to the droves of people before him. He tried to keep the smile upon his face, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as the press room of City Hall seemed to veer closer and closer towards ecstatic chaos. The people's excitement, their eagerness, was near uncontainable.

That day's events had caught the attention of municipal, national, as well as global media. New York City was abuzz with activity, talk of the mutant who had uncovered something essential to the advancement of modern science, to the understanding of the trends in evolution that had spawned the very existence of his kind. It was a day to be reckoned, a day that would be marked in history. And it was also a day the now-famous mutant wished would quickly expire because it had been very taxing to his peace-loving, gentle persona.

"One at a time!" the moderator shouted into the microphone. When the noise level had decreased considerably he added, "Dr. McCoy will be more than happy to answer as many questions as possible in the allotted time, in a _civil manner_." He moved away so that the hairy, ape-like figure could return to the microphone-littered podium.

Dr. Hank McCoy adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses upon his blue-furred face. He smiled pleasantly and clasped his hands together, trying to differentiate between the so many reporters that swarmed the floor before him. They waved hands and notepads and microphones in their eagerness to extract information for a story. All the cameras were rather perplexing, Hank found, and all the eyes turned towards him, all the mouths shouting for his attention. Squelching any thoughts of regret at accepting such public praise for his work, he drew a breath, pointed at a familiar, dark-haired reporter in the front row, and readied himself to answer her question.

Scott Summers adjusted the rose quartz glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He leaned towards the pretty redhead seated beside him and asked, "What's that reporter's name?"

"Tilby. Trish Tilby," she replied.

"Have you noticed how her questions are leading Hank on?"

"Making mutants sound like natural progress rather than freaks of nature? Yeah, I have, and I'm not unhappy about it." Jean Grey smiled minutely, ignoring the feeling of wariness growing in the back of her mind. Despite the rather pleasant occasion, there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on, something elusive.

"…so what you're saying, Dr. McCoy, is that mutants have developed an extra gene on their chromosomes that grants them these extraordinary powers?"

Cameras flashed. Hushed voices, oohs, and ahhhs echoed around the crowd.

"Yes. As I have explained during the presentation earlier, I have entitled this gene the x-factor. Though its precise characteristics, unique attributes, and exact origin have yet to be determined, I have no doubt that its growth within human DNA is the first step in enabling the extra abilities that mutants possess. As the Neanderthals eventually metamorphosed to homo sapiens, mutants were birthed."

"By what you say then, Doctor, the presence of mutants in human society is inevitable. This x-factor is the next, necessary step in the evolution of our species? Perhaps even for our survival as a single race?"

"She's brave to say those things," Scott noted, "especially now when…." He sighed, frowning.

Jean glanced at him worriedly. She reached over and gently squeezed his hand. "Things can't stay like this forever." She tried to squelch that annoyingly potent feeling of hopeless melancholy that usually came whenever she contemplated the future of mutants. Things did not seem to be getting better, only worse. The Professor's dream seemed less and less like a possible reality.

"And how long will that take?" It was evident that Scott struggled to keep his voice low and under control, though that hardly seemed necessary in the busy atmosphere of the press room. "I thought it was just bad in the U.S., but I never even considered other countries. Mutants are getting attacked everywhere, Jean, you know that better than anyone—you feel it happen sometimes. If the public turns against us, what chance do we have?"

"It hasn't turned against us…."

"Not completely maybe," he huffed.

"Scott, don't talk like this. It isn't like you to…." Jean felt her last thought slip away as something else filled her mind, a presence that had long been absent. She felt it as clearly as she felt Scott's mere inches from her. Everything else around—sounds, people, voices—faded as she concentrated all efforts on locating the source.

She looked around the crowded room, eyes following the presence she felt almost palpably because of the strong emotions it radiated. She felt its doubt, its fear, its longing. And its sadness, however suppressed. _Where are you?_

"Jean? What's the matter?"

There, standing in complete seclusion near the press room's large double doors, completely oblivious to Jean's attention, but plaintively observing the scene of reporters and imminent city leaders.

Only noticed by few, a cell phone went off, and was quickly silenced.

"Jean!"

"Sorry, Scott. I'll be right back." She stood without further explanation and, apologizing for herself, inched down the row for the aisle.

"Ow!" Sam Guthrie exclaimed, when she stepped on his foot.

Jean whispered a quick sorry and moved past without noticing the empty seat between Sam and Kitty Pryde. She made her way off the main floor and approached the double doors, only to find them completely bereft of any sentient presence. _Where are you?_ she projected, reaching out with her powers. She had learned a few tricks over the years, having become more empathetic and skilled with her telepathy. Like a web her powers branched throughout the area, every strand sensitive to feeling, to a specific mental signature, until she finally located it. The effort was exhausting, beads of perspiration forming on her brow. She wiped them away and took a deep breath; the end result would be worth the exertion.

"So did you find it?"

"Find what?"

"The meaning of life, your place in the universe, the purpose of existence—whatever it was you went hunting for."

Rogue rolled her eyes, "Lance, Ah find it fascinating that ya speak so eloquently at times and have no idea what you're talking about." She moved the cell phone to her other ear so she could better watch a pair of squirrels poke about the crabapple trees.

"Whatever man. Where you at?"

The crabapple trees' pink and red blossoms fluttered as a breeze blew past. A few ethereal petals broke from their stems, no longer fresh as spring came to a close, and danced in the air until touching ground. One landed on Rogue's shoulder, and she picked it up, caressing its velvety surface with her thumb and index finger. This setting was much more enjoyable than the overstuffed press room, even despite its lack of old friends. "City Hall," she said into the phone, "picnic area."

She heard a huff on the other end of the connection. "You flew all the way around the world just to sit by yourself. And here I am in this blazing hot desert, trying to get info out of a punk who's more stubborn than you."

"At least ya didn't have to deal with his mutant powers," Rogue muttered. Through her entire preparation for departure, during the tediously long flight back to the States, she had thought of nothing but the illusion. How it had felt so real, so devastating to finally see _him_, no matter how false his presence was. The experience had somehow put things into perspective. Was that how their first reception would be after all this time, her behaving like such a weak, blubbering invalid?

Lance sighed, "You're still beating yourself up about that?" When he received no reply, "Seyyid had a dangerous power, you know. Like Sean said, he makes people see what'll have the greatest impact on them—good or bad."

"So what's going to happen to him?" Rogue asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"Same as the others, 'cept I think Seyyid's the first _mutant_ terrorist we've caught. Sean wants the most brutal thing prosecutors can come up with. How much does that suck, a mutant organizing public executions of his own kind?"

"He doesn't believe in peace," Rogue said, bitterness in her tone. "He's just an opportunist that uses his powers for self gain, though Ah don't see how killing mutants does anybody any good in any way."

"Frost is going for life servitude in a Mexican prison or something."

Rogue nearly laughed, "What?"

"She doesn't think Seyyid deserves the comfort of death."

"Ah always knew Emma had a sadistic side."

Lance chuckled briefly. "So you talked to them yet?" he asked.

"Who?" Rogue knew she was stalling but didn't care. She had never liked discussing sensitive subjects with anyone, least of all Lance. Even despite how he had grown on her like an annoying brother over the past two years. "Ah haven't talked to Kitty yet, if that's what you mean."

"It…isn't…."

He wanted to say more; he was merely restraining himself. Even after all this time he still cared about Kitty, Rogue was absolutely certain. She decided not to milk the issue further and was about to ask him about Shiro and Piotr, when a familiar face rounded the building's corner.

He walked with the sauntering gait of youth, dressed in baggy jeans and a loose T-shirt. He no longer appeared like a light-hearted joker, but sullen and of a bad mood. Rummaging through the many pockets of his pants, he took no notice of Rogue as he approached the picnic area. He only looked up to light a cigarette, and started abruptly at seeing the young woman between all the blossomed trees. "Whoa—you're back."

"Ah'll call you back, Lance," Rogue said into her phone. "Something urgent's come to my attention." She hung up without waiting for a reply, slipping the cell into her blazer pocket. In four quick strides she approached the intruder and snatched the cigarette right out of his fingers. "How many anti-drug commercials do you gotta see to realize smoking is bad, Bobby Drake?"

Now taller and leaner than the kid she remembered, he shook away his shock and shrugged listlessly. "Whatever man, I'm still young." He watched with mild surprise as the cigarette incinerated in Rogue's hand. "Hey, that costs money."

"That you're wasting on five bucks a pack," Rogue retorted.

"I have my reasons."

"Enlighten me."

His clear blue eyes, once bearing the light twinkle of a mischievous prankster, seemed clouded over by heavy experiences. They darkened as he looked away, "I wouldn't have to if you'd been around all this time."

Rogue stared at him expressionlessly, felt as though she'd been slapped. She released the cigarette cinders from her hands and watched them dissipate in the breeze, wishing she could disappear as easily. "Ah didn't mean to intrude," she said, and turned to leave.

Bobby opened his mouth to apologize for his harsh words, but then scowled when he realized he didn't know what to say. Shaking his head, he snatched another cigarette from his pack and commenced lighting it.

_What was Ah thinking, comin' back after all this time expecting a warm welcome?_

The corridors of City Hall were mostly empty, with only stray administrators and staff sparsely milling about. Rogue had reentered the building the way she left, walking inconspicuously through its elegantly designed halls towards an unknown destination. She could go back to the press room to watch Hank (she was sorry to have missed the award ceremony), but all the X-Men were there. What if they saw her, reacted with bitterness the way Bobby had? Her rental car was only a few corridors away, all her stuff still packed in the trunk. It'd be easy to just leave, go back to X-Corps, back to work helping to save terrorized mutants—

_Why didn't you tell us?_

Rogue froze, all her thoughts coming to a halt. She turned around to locate the source of the projection and saw her, Jean Grey, standing around the corner she had just turned.

The redhead looked well, wearing a muted grey skirt and jacket suit with her long locks tied back in an elegantly low ponytail. Her green eyes were as bright as ever, though glossed over by certain dampness. _You should have given us word,_ she continued. _If we'd known…._

Jean shook her head in awe. The slender, young woman before her, standing there so aloof with hands within the pockets of a faded-brown vintage blazer, seemed like only a semblance of the girl she'd last seen. Rogue's hair, once choppy and short, flowed past her shoulders in sleek, stratified locks of auburn; her distinctive white strands had been cropped into face-framing layers that complemented her heart-shaped face. She barely wore any make up, but didn't need to because her face…it was nearly angelic, capable of fooling any stranger that the persona behind it was as peaceful and untainted as it tragically could not be.

Rogue felt unnerved under Jean's scrutiny, no matter how much closer they had become since two years ago. She brushed her forehead free of bangs and sighed, "Ah don't think Ah'll stay for long, just wanted ta see how you guys were doing—" She almost gasped when Jean hugged her, becoming ever aware of the satiny gloves over her hands.

When Jean pulled away, her eyes had dried and her mouth smiled. "You look well. I was worried after we lost complete contact, but I take it Betsy handled things all right?"

Rogue nodded, remembering the firsthand discomfort of having to work with a different telepath. But British agent Elizabeth Braddock had been more than understanding, more than willing to help. "She made it work without really getting into my thoughts."

"Without knowing the…details?" Jean phrased carefully.

Rogue released a dry laugh, "At least she couldn't think Ah was some pathetic, unstably heartbroken girl."

"I never thought that, Rogue."

A deep silence fell between them. Polar opposites, they didn't get along during the beginnings of their association, yet had slowly begun to reach some sort of truce through many trials of fate and fortitude as X-Men. But after a disturbed mutant girl entered their lives, picking off their friends one by one, Jean and Rogue had reached a middle ground, had become truer, unfaltering friends.

"Do you still think about him?" Jean asked softly.

Rogue said nothing. She didn't need to.

"The sessions? When was your last with Betsy?"

"'Bout eight months ago. She left the team to do her own thing, but didn't go without leaving me something that'd last a while."

"Hasn't the barrier faded after all this time?"

"Little by little every day…but Ah'm feeling better about…it all. Ah don't need it ta _function_ anymore. But it does help, just to get through the days…weeks, months, life." Rogue laughed dryly at her own expense. "So much for bein' a tough girl, huh?"

Jean offered a consolatory smile, "You're too hard on yourself. Not many people can handle all that you've been through, all that you've done."

Rogue shrugged, not quite believing. She nodded towards the doors into the press room where voices and movement could be heard.

"Everyone's been really good," Jean said without requiring the question. "But we've missed you."

"Ran into Bobby outside," Rogue murmured. She looked past Jean down the hall, at a rather stout man wearing a baggy leather jacket and face-shadowing baseball cap despite the mild weather. He walked casually towards the press room doors.

"Oh, Bobby," Jean said, sighing forlornly. "You have a lot of catching up to do."

Rogue agreed, still feeling the sting of Drake's earlier words.

The man in the leather jacket entered the press room inconspicuously, but as he disappeared from her sight, an alarming thought suddenly struck Rogue: "Wait—why isn't there any security around this place?"

"And what will you do now, after receiving such an esteemed award, Dr. McCoy?"

"Continue my research. There is still much to learn about the x-factor, and the more knowledge we acquire, the more we may grow to understand the evolution of our species. With greater comprehension of these gifts, mutants will be able to better harness their powers for the betterment of humanity. Mutants possess the countless abilities of countless variations and elements. They can rewrite the laws of physics, fuel our energy needs…."

Jubilee yawned openly and received a sharp elbow in the ribs by Rahne. "Ow!" she hissed. "That hurt!"

"Don't you have any respect for Mr. McCoy's speech?"

"Tons. Just don't kill me 'cause it's boring."

"Jubes, you're awful!"

"What, Bobby walks around acting like an ass and that's ok, but I make one snide comment and it's a crime?"

As the two continued arguing, Kitty Pryde rolled her eyes and tried to refocus on Hank's speech. Beside her Scott continuously looked around the room in a state of perplexity.

_Jean,_ Kitty thought. _Where'd she go anyway?_

"…I would like bestow much gratitude towards the honorable members of the National Science Association for granting me such recognition for my work and extend many thanks to the New York City Council and Mayor Thompson for making this event possible."

Thunderous applause followed Hank McCoy's last words, drowning out the last-minute questions of feisty reporters and newscasters' chatter. The furry ape doctor bowed slightly a few times, raising his hand to wave at the crowd.

"You have any idea how _awesome_ this is?" Sam Guthrie said, clapping flamboyantly. Beside him, Kurt Wagner, true blue form concealed with an image-inducer, hooted in a cheer for Hank.

Kitty couldn't help smiling, "It is awesome, isn't it?"

"Hell yeah—look at that—everybody's going crazy over Mr. McCoy! Maybe the Professor was right; maybe people will eventually accept us."

As Hank stepped away from the podium, the resonant moderator once again approached to announce an end to the press conference.

The press room became even more chaotic as people rose from their seats. Those upon the dais were led away by a few security guards—the Mayor, various city council members, and representatives of the Science Association, as well as the venerated Professor Charles Xavier and his colleague Ororo Munroe.

Hank walked alongside the Mayor in order to engage in some sort of belated discourse, while the Professor and Storm followed at the rear. The procession forced its way through the crowd towards the VIP entrance-exit.

Kitty followed her friends, half-listening to Kurt's excited jabber about a celebration party back at the Institute, when a sudden commotion erupted within the crowd. She turned immediately towards the guarded procession.

Somebody screamed, bodies impulsively moving, heaving against each other in disorder—and a shout rang out in the air, "Here McCoy!" In the confusion the doctor caught something that was thrown to him, then immediately lunged towards the Mayor just as a small explosion echoed throughout the room. Panic ensued, someone screamed "bomb", and droves of people suddenly swarmed the doors.

Kitty phased herself past, moving easily through the crowd as her friends were swept away. She shrieked as another explosion shook the room and caused bits of the ceiling to collapse. Pushing a woman out of the way of falling stone, she fell to the floor and was nearly trampled by many panicked feet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large black bird fly into the room, landing to perch on a wobbling ceiling light. Kitty struggled to her feet just in time to witness something she otherwise would not have believed.

The bird hopped of the light fixture and fluttered down towards the quickly-thinning crowd. Its wings and feet elongated upon descent, feathers paling and stretching out to form a flawless layer of skin over quickly-expanding human arms and legs. Instead of a bird, a slender young woman with white-streaked auburn hair landed upon the crowd.

Rogue tackled the man to the floor, roughly pulling open his leather jacket to reveal strings of explosives, minor and devastating. He resisted, booting her unexpectedly in the jaw. Enduring the blow, Rogue fell back upon her hands and flipped herself backwards, kicking up her feet to pummel the man twice with her heels. She landed gracefully on all fours, quickly assessed the situation. There, right hand. The detonator flew from the man's grasp and landed in her palm. With a swift thought his jacket was torn from his body, flying into Rogue's outstretched fingers. Her telepathy, though not pure and inbred, lacked no efficiency as it hurled the attacker into the opposite wall. He fell unconsciously onto the evacuated dais.

The entire press room was nearly empty by then, only a few spectators and fearless reporters remaining on scene. Kitty stared in shock at Rogue, not believing her own eyes. She felt someone approach behind her and turned to see Scott who appeared just as surprised as her, and Jean who did not. The Professor and Ororo slowly approached Rogue, but the center of attention soon drifted from her to Dr. McCoy and Mayor Thompson.

The Mayor, prostrated upon the floor, remained motionless with a growing pool of blood forming near his head. Hank kneeled over him, a blaster weapon of some sort in his hands.

City Hall security suddenly barged into room, viewed the scene, and seized the ape-like mutant. Hank did not resist as he was roughly handcuffed, staring in confusion and bewilderment at the motionless Mayor and unconscious bomber.

"Please, stop! You are terribly mistaken." Ororo entreated the security guards to no avail. Even the Professor's arguments went unheeded. Scott tried to stop them from taking Hank away but was held back by Jean.

As an emergency medical crew carried New York City's mayor away, security ushered everyone out of the crime scene. Rogue moved like a shadow through the teeming crowds occupying the corridors. Pictures were snapped, reports immediately broadcasted through every available camera. The versatile Trish Tilby fought her way onto the front lines, shoving a microphone towards the X-Men. "What can you say about McCoy's arrest, Professor? Professor! Ms. Munroe?"

Ororo pushed his wheelchair forward, neither turning to acknowledge any of the shouts and calls directed towards them.

The rest of the X-Men followed suit. All they wanted was to return to the safety and calm of the Institute. Rogue moved among them though she felt so very apart. She could feel their eyes on her, forcing memories and feelings of a former existence to mind, thoughts of people she had taken for granted and ultimately hurt. She was afraid to meet any of them in the eye—Sam, Ray, Jubilee, Rahne, Scott, and especially Kitty, especially Kurt. How ironic it was that Jean would turn out to be her confidante.

The homecoming had not happened as she'd hoped.

**After an unnecessarily long hiatus, I am back!**

Understand, it took a while to get my thoughts on how this story should unfold straightened—like six months or however long it's been—not to mention all the things I have had to do like graduating from high school, surviving the summer, and now getting ready to leave for college. But I am writing again. So very sorry for the delay—but we shall see how many loyal readers I have.

REVIEWS please!

So far it's just a peek at all the major things that have changed since _Demon In My View_. This story has a lot of potential, a lot of different paths it can take, and I am still in the process of sorting it all out, but promises that it will be _epic_ are not farfetched.

Hopefully I still have readers, as many as DimV had, hopefully more!

And as always, with much love however belated, the writing will continue. Enjoy.

—Raven—


	2. Helot

**So like I know I've been known to reply to every single review that I get...**but I'm in college now and did you guys know how much frickin' reading they make you do! So yeah, I'm about a whole BOOK behind in my history class so I'm just gonna briefly upload this for you guys!

**Oh, and I just want to comment on how crazy it is that New Orleans (of all places) was hit by a devastating hurricane. **When I heard that—and this shows how big of a dork I am—I thought: _Oh my God that's Remy's hometown._ Yeah, I know.

x

Cigarette smoke wafted in thin wisps throughout the room, mingling with the sounds of sociable voices and tinkling glasses. Lights were dim to allow convenient shadows where customers might conceal themselves. The bar was one of the minority downtown that enforced little rules and asked no names. Few knew of it and even fewer were sly enough to endure its interior, where good looks gained favor, money persuaded, and the naïve were easily prey to cons.

At one of the poker tables five players were engrossed in a game. A heap of cash sat in the center, eyed warily by every man with a stake in the winnings.

"Moment of truth," the dealer said, looking around expectantly.

Three players folded, scowling bitterly. Of the remaining two, one was a scraggly, red-faced man over thirty, probably indulging in a few hours' decadence without the knowledge of the missus and children. He fanned his cards on the table, revealing a full house hand. Grinning smugly, he looked eagerly at his opponent.

The last player, youngest at the table, seemed subtly amused. His red-on-black eyes peered over his cards, a slight glint in the crimson irises. Russet bangs—too long to be gentlemanly, too short to be grubby—fell over his forehead in a teasing manner. With a subtle flick of experienced fingers, his cards were displayed upon the table: a straight flush.

"That's impossible!" his opponent exclaimed.

The dealer gathered up the cards, "Le Diable Blanc does it again."

He gathered his bounty, looking only vaguely pleased, as though winning for him was perfunctory.

The red-faced man had brightened a few shades of crimson. Without warning he grabbed the youth by the collar and jerked him forward. Chairs clattered to the floor as the other players abruptly stepped away.

"That was two weeks grocery money you just cost me," he glowered, breath smelling like beer and onion rings. "No way a dirty _mutie_ got that hand without cheating."

Le Diable Blanc looked down at the clenched fists by his throat. His gaze flicked back to his opponent, steady and critical, demonic eyes glowing subtly from incensement, "Y' wrinklin' m'shirt, home."

The man scoffed, "Snotty little punk—" He lost the rest of his thought, too occupied with the head-splitting pain that had exploded in his face. He crumpled to the floor, stunned, wondering when and how the dirty mutant had punched him.

The youth reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifty-dollar bills. He stepped over the red-faced man, tossed him the money, "Don' need it anyway." Straightening the collar of shirt, he headed for the bar without a glance at the man's reaction. Dieu, did he hate having to deal with the pompous ones.

Seating himself on a stool, he hailed the bartender, "Shot o'de usual. An' leave de bottle."

"Could've gone a little easier on him, LeBeau."

"Homme shouldn' gamble if he can't take de loss." Remy could almost smirk at the irony of his statement. _Speak for y'self._ He picked up the tiny glass that had been set before him and gulped it down without the faintest flinch. He took two more shots without pause.

"Take it easy, man," the bartender said. "You'll drown in that stuff otherwise."

"Dat doesn' sound too bad."

"Psh, you're crazy talking now."

Remy shook his head and proceeded pouring himself another glass.

"Suit yourself," the bartender muttered, "but I ain't hauling your shit-faced ass out of here if you pass out." He moved on to serve other customers.

The bottle of liquor glistened like ambrosia in the amber lights. Remy stared at it blankly, focused his attention on the comforting warmth that was already growing in his stomach. Lately, it had come to be the only thing he felt, no matter how artificial he knew it was, no matter how fleeting. The only down side to drinking himself to oblivion was the period between the first shot and blacking out—during that time his mind wandered to things from long ago and far away, things that stirred buried thoughts and feelings that would only complicate his life, no matter how despicable it now was, how pathetic.

_Y'ain' not'ing but his dog, Rem_, he thought.

A crash exploded on the other side of the room. Somebody had smashed a chair into a man's back. The fight escalated, soon involving every drunkard in that corner of the bar. Slinky waitresses dodged flying objects, some giggling in excitement while the newer ones cowered in alarm. Remy's eyelids fell halfway down as he sighed in irritation. Maybe he was expecting too much in a place like that, but he'd been looking for a peaceful evening. He fingered the wad of cash he'd won from the poker game, debated tossing in the cup of some hobo on the street. It'd be the only good deed he'd done in a long, long while.

"You look about dismal as I feel."

He didn't turn to acknowledge the speaker, only sipped his liquor.

She sat in the stool next to him, slender body wrapped in a black strapless cocktail dress. Her skin was pale, even in the warm light that glinted off the auburn of her hair. "But I think we can cheer each other up." She caressed his forearm tenderly, clear eyes begging to be looked at.

"Off," was all Remy said. It hadn't escaped him the resemblance she bore to someone he knew. Someone that continued to haunt him every waking day, every solitary night.

"You don't gotta act so cold," the girl said. She was young, barely past her teens though her demeanor would convince otherwise. How long had she been in the business? It was a pity. A real pity. Like it was with everyone in this decrepit bar.

"Fille, y'don' wan' do dis," Remy said, finally turning to look at her. Oui, she looked like her a lot. But not enough. Never was it enough.

The girl pouted, glossy lips pursing in a perfected act. "Usually I'm not the one asking," she sighed. "But I don't much feel like the thugs tonight."

Remy suppressed the huff that threatened to insult her. "Den go home," he said, almost a command.

She bristled noticeably, "Some people need to work for a living." Her eyes, no longer coy and welcoming, hardened at his tone. He could almost admire that sort of fortitude, that sort of self respect. At least she wasn't the type that enjoyed what she did, at least she knew better. But that only made her situation ever the more tragic.

Remy suddenly felt deflated. He finished his drink and reached into his pocket. As he moved away from the bar, he brushed past the girl, placing his poker winnings into her slender palm. "Dere's always another way," he whispered in her ear. "Don' make me regret dis kindness, mon cherie." He walked away without turning around, but could still appreciate the expression of shock, confusion, and yes, even gratitude, that radiated from the girl's face.

The street outside proved to be much more peaceful. Remy flipped up the collar of his duster and buried his hands in the pockets. He strode down the city avenue, warm and slightly dazed by the liquor. He thought about the heist from earlier that day; he thought about the young prostitute; he thought about all those worse off than him but felt none the better. As always when in such a state, memories began resurfacing in his mind, each as torturous and aggravating as they were beautiful and precious.

_Let's just say it was my powers she wanted to nurture. — You an' I, we could write a book 'bout it. Been down de same roads..._

_I'll take care o'dis, chere. Promise. — Don't disappoint me_

_Just give me one night, Remy, one night._

_Wait f'me….Don' forget 'bout dis, chere. — Ah won't._

He shook his head, feet pounding the concrete sidewalk in his heavy stride. It wasn't _that_ long ago, just long enough to be forgotten, to never have any real hope of getting back. At least, not much. Especially after all that he'd done, what he had become. Sometimes if he allowed it, he could hear the screaming in his ears, see the dead, bloody faces of his victims; he could feel Belle pounding her fists weakly against his chest, pretty blue eyes pouring tears in rivers. Not just her either, non, not just her.

Others, people–mutants–he didn't even know by face let alone name. They screamed too. Dieu did they scream as they died.

But not tonight. He wouldn't torture himself tonight—at least not in that way. Instead he imagined locks of silky auburn hair, the twin streaks of dove feather framing her face. He listened for her husky Southern drawl and imagined the bright green emeralds of eyes he had willingly fallen into. And her skin, dieu, her skin, the touch of her warmth, her breath on his chest, her hands caressing away every and all discomfort…

_Beep beep beep_.

Remy looked down at his belt where a pager was clipped. A text message blipped on the view screen: report promptly. He shut off the alarm and tilted his head back, drew a deep breath of metropolis-tainted night air. It looked like rain, confirmed by the large thunderclouds rolling and boiling in the sky. His evening didn't seem like it'd be any more peaceful, his hopes vanquished by the devil's call. Pulling the trench coat tighter around himself, he strode in the direction of Essex's compound.

x

The large warehouse appeared ramshackle and decrepit from without; siding of old bricks crumbled from age, while metal pipes left streaks of unsightly rust upon its haggard construction. Remy entered with the familiar stride of one who had walked the area far too many times.

He moved through the crooked bolt-iron door, past wide spaces littered with abandoned manufacturing equipment, until he reached the seemingly broken twin elevators. He pushed the cracked, down arrow button; it did not light up, but rattling metal on screechy old pulleys sounded behind the closed automated doors. When the elevator car arrived he looked into the familiarly disheveled interior, no longer put off by its dilapidated appearance–anyone else would have hesitated to enter, or even walked away entirely.

After a few seconds the elevator came to a jolting stop, the doors opening with creaky rattles. Up ahead was another elevator, clean and sleek with stainless steel coating. Remy boarded that one and descended to the hidden laboratory beneath the abandoned warehouse. The doors swung smoothly, noiselessly open; he stepped into a space of complete darkness. As he moved forward, thin fluorescent bars of light lit up at his coming, gradually revealing bit by bit of the long corridor. At the end twin doors of black glass stood closed, a touch pad to its right glowing red.

Remy pushed his thumb onto the pad. The computer scanned his print and after a few seconds, the touch pad turned green in acceptance. The black-glass doors opened with a soft hiss, and he calmly entered the lab.

As always, metal tables, glass vials, beeping monitors, and strange apparati were his greeting. He glanced around the scientific workspace, seeing it all with a familiar eye, with a familiar pang of dread to the stomach. What now, the dread taunted him, what next. He did not wait long before his mast–employer, made himself known. _Not a master. Not._

"You are unusually tardy, LeBeau."

He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. When he turned around he appeared calm and detached, nothing on his face betraying the tight wad of disgust and loathing writhing in his gut.

There the man stood, the one that had saved his life, restored control to his powers, and yet Remy could do nothing but hate him. He stared at the man's sickly pale skin and red eyes, his inky black lips and oily black hair, and...hate hate hate.

What was close to a scolding look quickly disappeared from Essex's pasty visage. He turned to examine a concoction he was brewing on a nearby lab table. "No matter," he said. "I have another assignment for you."

Remy's jaw tightened. "Oui?" he said, apathetic. Always apathetic. That was the only way to survive. Care too much and he might as well become suicidal. "Dat's funny, I t'ought we'd have a lil' discussion 'bout all dese jobs I still been doin' f'you."

The scientist didn't appear to be listening. Hands as ashen as his face neatly recorded notes onto a clipboard while he examined the chemical brew on the table.

"M'done, Essex," Remy continued, despite the doubt nagging at his stomach. "Dis arrangement wasn' go'n' last forever. I was only bein' polite before not pointin' out dat wit' jus' a lil' effort, I can steal de serum an' be on m'way outta here."

"And how long do you suppose one vial would last you, Gambit?" came the counter.

Remy narrowed his eyes. Hate. He could feel his eyes smoulder with red-hot hate.

A mirthless chuckle ejaculated from the cold man. He looked up from his work, settling demonic eyes on his unwilling henchman. "I can sense the strain in our relationship, Gambit. And yes, I agree that our contract should soon expire–but I presently have an assignment for you."

Remy scarcely dared to hope, yet it was tainted by dread. "What assignment?"

"You should find it fitting, seeing as how it is a simple task of thievery. I have booked a flight for you to Manhattan. An event of great importance is to occur and you must be there for its execution. Further details will be supplied upon arrival."

New York. Bayville. Xavier Institute. For a moment Remy lost sense of where he was. He blinked, immediately regaining composure. He hadn't been back since... It wasn't something he wanted to think about, had been one of the biggest reasons keeping him away. And now he was forced to return by the bidding of...?

"I suggest you get moving. Your plane leaves in an hour. Here are your tickets." Reaching into his lab coat, the scientist revealed a travel packet and offered it for reception.

Remy stared at it a few seconds before accepting. "Dat's all y'go'n' tell me? Even de other jobs were less vague."

Essex shrugged, "You're a versatile lad, adjust accordingly as the situation demands. You may depart." He turned to leave but stopped at realizing the young man did not exit. "Have you more to say?"

Red eyes glowed dangerously in seas of black, orbs blacker than Essex's inky mouth. "Dis de last one," came the hoarse, grave words. "Afterwards m'done."

Essex calmly assessed the young thief, attempted reading that face of potent genetic allure that was kept in such practiced poker indifference. The boy was good, no doubt of that, and such a loss of valuable skill if permanently departed. But there was a time to let go of minions, especially when they were obviously on their last straw of patience and endurance. "As I mentioned earlier, I expected so much. This shall be your last job for me. I will promptly give you the remaining amounts of serum you require once the task is completed."

Remy was too wary to believe him, too frightened to hope. He briskly nodded and left the laboratory without another word or look. For the moment, just getting away from that robotic man would be enough to calm his nerves. He endured the tedious motions of getting out of the decrepit building and was soon breathing free night air.

New York. He was returning to New York. Instinctively he turned to face east, stared at the hazy skyline, tried to picture it spiked with the edifices of Manhattan. The city was so close to where he'd wanted to be for so long... he wasn't sure he could resist going back to what he'd left behind, what he'd for so long betrayed. But how could he even think of such a thing after all that had happened?

_Sapristi, s'jus' a job. Y'ain' havin' no reunion._

Remy ran a hand through his hair. It'd been long indeed. He was probably forgotten, cast aside, or dieu hopefully not – replaced. But he still wanted what was lost. Maybe, if he dared, he could get it back again just to at least catch a glimpse of her.

Of Rogue.

x

Thick, boiling clouds of angry greys and blacks suffocated the skies above Seattle; they rendered the night menacing and hostile, every gust of wind whispering threats, every movement a caveat of surreptitious assault. Fusillades of rain pummeled the city streets relentlessly while thunder crackled not too far away.

Within a towering edifice of the business district, a door slid open in one of the building's many, many rooms. At the center of the room reposed a round table engraved with intricate designs of myth and symbol. The visitor cautiously, quietly approached, taking notice of the strange, rather plain pattern at the middle of the table's smoothly polished surface: silver-embossed circles, one within another and numbering nine.

Suddenly a light flicked on from the corner. The small lamp's warm beams barely illuminated a pair of slender legs, ensconced in the leather arm chair beside it; they were gracefully crossed, a pair of equally slender hands folded across the lap. Shadows concealed half the torso and all of the face the limbs belonged to. "You, sir, are late."

His black coat and fedora were slicked from the outside rain, dripping water that was soon absorbed by the verdantly carpeted floor. Red eyes glowed beneath the brim of the hat. "Apologies," he said, slithery voice flat and perfunctory.

After a few moments of scrutinizing pause, he was asked, "What tidings have you?"

"Progress. All is occurring as planned and discussed. Here is the report you requested, complete with data charts, diagrams, and schematics. Your investments have not been futile." He set a plastic folder on the round table.

"I should hope not, considering their magnitude. How much more time do you need?"

"A project of such ingenuity, of such scale and consequence, cannot be put to a timetable. You were informed of this from the beginning."

"Of course, I only ask for an estimation…"

"…which is unpractical and near impossible to give."

The slender legs, covered at the thighs by a turquoise skirt, slowly uncrossed, then crossed again. The arms soon mimicked the gesture. "Very well, leave it be your way. You are the brains behind this, after all. Have you anything to share regarding your colleagues?"

"As blinded by their cause as usual," he replied, voice perpetually monotone and detached. "They will play right into our hands."

"And your young, oh what shall we call him… slave?" A light, husky chuckle followed the remark.

"He executes nothing but direct obedience, as has been demonstrated by past events. At the moment he is on his way to New York to secure a small, but important, detail to our project. It should not take long."

Ivory hands clapped softly together in excited anticipation. "Oh, I can hardly wait for the day, Nathaniel. When all the pieces come together, after they are all under our grasp…oh, my dreams could never be sweeter. And it is so very close to happening. So very very close. Can't you simply smell it?"

"I do not waste time on reveries. Focused work in the present is the only thing that generates results."

"You know, with an attitude like that, I must wonder whether you will even be able to enjoy our impending victories. I would guess that once your work is completed, you will lose a sense of purpose and have a mid-life crisis or something." After a few giggles, "I am merely teasing, Nathaniel. Crack a smile now and then—it does the heart good…of course, I suppose you would have to _have_ a heart…."

He made no reply and was promptly waved away.

"Very well, I tire of your presence. Our meeting here is finished."

He turned to leave, pulling the brim of his fedora down and further shadowing the pasty skin of his face.

"Ah, one more thing, Nathaniel. _She_ has returned."

He paused, turning around ever so slightly. His stomach would have flipped had he been capable of experiencing true excitement. "You are certain."

"As the sun sets. If you spent more time out of that claustrophobic lab of yours, you might have taken notice of her on the news. But alas, all is happening as has been foretold. I trust upcoming events will be very interesting indeed."

"Indeed," he echoed, then seemed to fall into deep contemplation. After a few lingering moments, "You realize what this means."

"Of course I do. I make that my business."

"Good. Very good. Until next time, my lady." He nodded and left the room, many thoughts running through his machinating mind.

Outside the storm raged ruthlessly, droplets of rain pounding upon any unfortunate pedestrian—but he took little notice of it. Even the abrupt flashes of lightning, the angry cackles of thunder, did nothing to disrupt his stride. He was lost in thought, memory, and planning.

She was back.

At last. At long last.


	3. Old Scars

Oh my gosh I cannot believe it has been so long since my last update! I really am sorry for having taken so long, but what with school and then stupid life drama – well I lost inspiration. But yesterday for some reason I got re-inspired and now the story will not be ignored anymore!

So here is Chapter 3 – and I will continue to do review replies like I had done so before.

Maybe it would help to read the former two chapters along with this one? Just a suggestion, since it has been a long time.

And really, SORRY for taking so long. I had ever intention of being more regular, hate to disappoint fans you know.

Ok, happy reading,

Raven

* * *

Even for her it was a strange weapon. Its design and shape was like nothing she'd ever seen, despite all the time she'd been with X-Corp. There were no signs, no symbols or numbers that would hint toward the origins of its making. She was beginning to think the detonator was from a private manufacturer, however disturbing and unlikely that was.

Rogue tucked the device into an inner pocket of her blazer. She wasn't sure how wise it had been to sneak the piece of evidence away from authorities, but the way she saw it, Hank was now in jail and anything that gave her a leg up was beneficial to him. She was set on finding a way to get him out from behind bars. Hank didn't deserve to be caged like an animal.

_Jesus, listen to yourself. As if you're a one-woman army. Sean was right._

Rogue ran a hand through her hair, straightening strands that had blown into dishevelment. Time had passed unacknowledged since she first snuck away to the gazebo. She needed peace and quiet after the suffocating din of the mansion. It was crazy back there, too many students alarmed by Hank's arrest, shocked at Rogue's sudden appearance.

Once again, not the homecoming she would've liked.

She looked around the cliff side, stared at the gentle waves caressing the shore, their soothing hush lulling her towards oblivion. It was so easy to fall into reveries, especially when she wasn't researching the next terrorist on Interpol files; learning how to dismantle the newest explosive device; or pummeling a stubborn brute who didn't know what "peaceful negotiations" meant. The good old days with X-Corps...

_Thinkin' like Ah'm not going back,_ Rogue realized. She shut her eyes, debated the idea. The years away had been good for her, no doubt of that. Her coping mechanism, her reason for living, her purpose in life. _That's what being an X-Man was supposed to be. Only this place reminded me too much of_...

Here, at the gazebo, at that very spot, it had all become real. That night she sat all alone, freezing, murmuring the words of a melancholy poem. She remembered it. So clearly. How he sat, what he said.

Rogue felt a burning in her nose. Almost frantically, she sniffed and rubbed her eyes. Damn it. It had been easier having the memories faded, so she wouldn't fall into them in every three seconds of idleness. Focus.

Hank—detonator—terrorist attacking mayor.

There was work to do.

She delved into her mind, gently stirring the psyches to attention. It had been difficult at first, completely draining to find that control again, but the incessant sessions with Emma and Betsy had done her good. It'd been her own doing, losing control; after accepting that, she could get it back again.

With a puff of sulfurous smoke Rogue felt herself land on the cold hard floor of the Institute basement.

The main computer room was empty, much to her relief. She could get work done with little distraction. Seating herself at the control panel, she powered up the central computer system and watched the large screen come to life.

A three-dimensional scanner was located just beside the main control panel. Rogue removed the detonator from her blazer, placed it inside the scanner's compartment. After starting the program, the apparatus began working.

Rogue dialed a number on her satellite phone. After two rings: "Yello?"

"Sean, Ah have a favor ta ask."

"Rogue, lass, how goes it over in the States?"

"It's been...eventful. Listen, sorry Ah haven't called sooner but it's been really..."

"Don't worry 'bout it, goirl. There's plenty of time te talk later. Right now I'm sensin' ye need somethin'"

"Ah'm sending you a scan of a strange weapon, a detonator. Ah've never seen one like it before."

"I'll run it through the archives." After a brief moment, "Nuttin'."

Rogue felt her eyebrow arch. "Really."

"Really."

"Interpol and X-Corps' files?"

"Yep. I'm just as disturbed, lass, though not that surprised. Somebody's cookin' up illegal weapons in the underground."

"And they're using it to attack U.S. government officials, framing mutants for it," Rogue said.

Sean sighed forlornly, "I saw the news. Didn't look professional though."

"That's because it wasn't," Rogue gritted. "The supplier gives it to an eager fanatic who inflicts harm and creates publicity." The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Mutant terrorism had risen catastrophically in the past few years, an explosion of hate crimes from the likes of overeager, average citizens with access to fatally dangerous weapons. "Another zealot to fight for the cause."

"Don't start with the hatin', Rogue. Ye ain't been fightin' these lunatics for two years just to let 'em beat ye down."

"Ah'm not," Rogue said. Her eyes flicked like reflex to the doorway. "Thanks, Sean, Ah'll check in soon." She slipped the phone back into her blazer just as a stocky man entered the control room.

His steely eyes focused with unnerving levelness, his face blank and difficult to read. As he approached, arms crossed and mouth set in a thin line, Rogue stood frozen by the computer controls. She didn't know how she should react, what to say, what to think.

Logan paused three feet away. His dark eyes glinted with nameless emotion though his expression remained obdurate. That callous poker face of his had never really bothered Rogue before; she always knew there was something behind hit, a wise mentor, a dependable friend—now she wasn't sure. Especially after all the time apart, how she had fled like the coward he had trained her not to be.

Rogue felt her insides squirming. Outwardly she appeared completely calm and unperplexed. Logan would be proud, if he didn't see past her bluffs that is.

"Been a while, eh Stripes?"

The old nickname. It tugged at something inside of her. And all she could think to say was, "Yeah..."

"Long's ye did what needed to be done."

Rogue looked away. His steely gaze, it was unnerving. Explanations and excuses streamed through her mind in senseless jumbles. She had speeches prepared, words that would've made so much sense.

"Kiddo..."

If only, she thought, if only that innocence was still hers. Before she could think anything else, she found herself wrapped in a fatherly bear hug. She blinked in confusion, smelled Logan's faint aftershave, and almost teared at the eyes.

"Good to finally see you again."

And she realized he understood. Logan knew the reasoning behind her flight. He had been there too, in a suffocating situation where the only remedy was escape, was distance. She should have known he'd understand. Relief flowed through her like water on a parched throat. And she was so thankful the interaction wasn't awkward.

Logan stood back and took a long look at her, "Ye eatin' nuff? What's with the skin and bones, Stripes?"

She could have laughed, but only managed a scoff. "Not much different from when Ah left, Logan...'cept more muscles maybe."

"If those are what you call muscles."

She scowled.

"Who you talkin' to?"

Rogue sighed, shook her head. She showed him the alien detonator and explained her attempts at putting a brand to it. "It has to be privately manufactured," she said. "Interpol and X-Corps have the most thorough weapons databases in the world. There ain't no gun or bomb not in there."

Turning the device around in his hands, Logan's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, "And somebody's handin' 'em to wannabe martyrs. Quaint."

"I say we do immediate reconnaissance," Rogue said. Ideas and protocol streamed through her head and she voiced them upon enlightenment, "If common people have this then common people will know about it. One of us should go undercover on the streets of New York. We should also run a profile on the mayor's attacker, locate his contact. Until we get solid evidence we'll have a very wide search area, but I doubt we'll have problems getting some of the students to help—"

Logan held up a hand to silence her. "Kid," he said with a sigh, "you just got back home from two years o' trekkin' the world fighting these kind of goons. Relax a little, catch up with people. I got this covered."

Rogue was slightly offended, "Are you kicking me off assignment?"

"Assignment?" Logan huffed. "Remember where you are, Rogue. We ain't a paramilitary group of mutants. This here's a school. So why don't you go...read a book or somethin'. And the Professor's come back from the jail. He'll be wantin' to see you." With that he pocketed the detonator, pat her on the back, and left.

After a few seconds she rubbed her eyes in sudden exhaustion. It had been days since she last exercised her powers and the sudden burst at city hall was like sprinting 100 meters after just woken from a long sleep. She felt stretched, wasted. She had a multitude of powers for use any way she pleased, but exertion drained her immensely. Once during a raid with Lance and Shiro, she was so weakened she'd nearly been killed by a soldier with a mere rock.

Logan was right—so was Sean. This was supposed to be some time off. Her thoughts were still in X-Corps mode. But it was hard; they couldn't expect her to sit around and do nothing while a friend sat in jail. Yet for the time being, there didn't seem to be much she could do. Stretching out her stiff limbs, she sighed, realizing the inevitable would come.

She didn't want to face them, the X-Men. Especially not Kitty. Or Kurt. From all the insanity that had ensued, no one had much opportunity to ask her questions, thank God. And out off them all, the only one she could bear to talk to was Jean—and that thought alone made her want to laugh. _If the me of two years ago could see this now..._

Her pocket began vibrating. Somebody was calling her. Looking at the viewscreen, the number read UNKNOWN. Rogue frowned curiously and pressed ACCEPT. "Hello?"

No sound came from the other line. Then the coarse hiss of something brushing against the mouthpiece. Finally a whispery voice, _"Impressive work today, child. I look forward to our first meeting."_

X

"So."

"So."

"Vhen...vhen do you think ve should talk to her?"

"Hmph. Mmm not gang hershem."

"Vhat?"

Kitty growled in exasperation, "I said I'm not going to talk to her!"

Kurt glanced around the rec room, hoping nobody had heard Kitty's outburst. They were sitting in their own little corner but everybody seemed tightly-wound and sensitive that day. Many of the students were taking down the decorations around the room. A surprise party had been planned for Hank, complete with a plethora of balloons and a hand-painted banner shouting: Congratulations, Doc! But instead their friendly Beast was locked in a jail cell.

He frowned at Kitty, "But…she's your best friend."

"Was."

"Oh come on. It's not like she abandoned us."

"She didn't even, like, bother to _tell us_, Kurt!" Kitty exploded. "Like she didn't care!"

He nodded, scratching his head, "I know…it's just…she's been with X-Corps. She's like…saving the vorld or something now!"

Kitty huffed and crossed her arms. Suddenly the entire lounge quieted. She glanced at the doorway, and by the devil, there she was, though she looked anything but demonic.

Rogue's heels clicked delicately against the floor as she entered. Her entire appearance radiated class and dignity, from the dove white of her pants to the thrifty green of her trendy jacket. Even her hair, layered and styled to perfect feathers, added to the allure of her beauty. She smiled timidly around the room, nude lips opening as though to say something but no words came out.

Storm was the first one to approach. She wrapped Rogue in a motherly hug, smiling comfortingly, "Welcome back, Rogue."

The other students seem to wake from a reverie. They began milling about Rogue, admiring her glamorousness, asking about her activity with X-Corps.

"You really put out a riot in Darfur—"

"Did you visit Paris?"

"—and that earthquake in India?"

"Who cut your hair?"

"—and blew up Zarqawi?"

Kitty felt her jaw tighten. She watched Rogue's flawless smile, the modesty in her eyes as she answered everyone's questions. Obviously nobody could come out and ask about the sudden departure, the sudden return—not many knew the real story. But they way they fawned over her, pretended nothing was awry….

Kitty glanced at Kurt, who didn't seem willing to join the others. "You feel awkward, don't you," she said.

He shrugged, "Dunno…I'm just a little veirded out."

Kitty was angry. She blinked upon realizing it. To some degree, she knew it was unfair, but still so hard to ignore. Two years ago, she had been shut out, cut off, and scorned—all because she genuinely tried to help. She knew Rogue was better now, but that didn't erase how she had turned on those closest to her, how she had turned on her best friend. And such betrayal was more than a little hard to forgive.

Kitty would never forget that night she found her in their room, saw the scabby skin, skin that could only exist from months of abuse. And the stained knife, Rogue's wide green eyes of bland surprise. Bereft of guilt or shame, nothing but a placid lack of expectation, as if she really believed it was nothing.

"Ah thought we'd discussed this Kitty" she had said, so nonchalant, so normal. "Walkin' through doors is impolite."

Kitty only stared, blue eyes wide with fear for her friend. "R-Rogue," she stammered, "you're…"

And Rogue stood from her kneeling position near her bed. She placed the knife back in her bureau drawer and looked at herself in the mirror, at the fresh addition to the slashes on her arms. "Don't worry, Kit, Ah promise it's nothin'." She wiped half-dried tears from her face. It hadn't wavered from that disturbing mask.

"Rogue?" Kitty entreated, slowly approaching. "You wanna, like, talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?"

Kitty blinked. She had no idea what to do, how to approach this, what to say. Rogue's behavior was making her doubt her worry, as if she was overreacting. So she suddenly cried, "What's there to talk about? You're cutting yourself Rogue!" She snatched her friend's arm, drew it up for full view, "You're bleeding!"

Rogue wrenched her arm free, fury flashing across her eyes. Then almost immediately she was calm again, "Ah told you, it's nothin'. Drop it." She turned to leave, but Kitty blocked her path. "Ah'm sorry you don't get it, Kit."

An invisible force shoved into Kitty. She stumbled back a few steps and stared after Rogue in shock. Had she just used her powers against her? Without a backward glance, Rogue left the room, slamming the door on the way out.

Kurt's voice pulled Kitty back to the present, "She's looking at us."

Kitty looked up to see Rogue making her way toward them. Confusingly, Kitty's insides began twisting into knots, out of bitterness, anger, or fear she couldn't tell. What did she have to be afraid of? It was Rogue who was treading uncharted territory here, Rogue who should be nervous about her reception of an unorthodox return. Yet Kitty felt an incredible urge to get up and leave. She wasn't ready to face Rogue, who she had failed to help.

"Hi." The new Rogue offered a brilliant smile, eyes looking questioningly from Kurt to Kitty. "Ah just wanted to say that this was unexpected, so it was kinda barely planned…" She shook her head and sighed, "Ah'm just sorry. For everythin' and Ah want to make it better while Ah'm here."

Kurt tried to alleviate the awkwardness. He didn't really harbor hard feelings toward his sister. During her "illness" he had kept a healthy distance, allowing Kitty, a more empathetic girl, to approach Rogue. He didn't realize Kitty would feel the butt of Rogue's doldrums, and he was glad for being spared that, at least.

"Everything's all vight, sis," he offered and gave her a brief hug. "You just got back. Don't vorry about it."

"I am, like, inclined to disagree."

"Kitty!" Kurt exclaimed, aghast.

Rogue's gaze was a steady sea of green as she stared at Kitty. It was hard to read her expression. "No, she's right. Y'all have all right to be upset with me."

"No, a ha, no," Kurt said nervously, "because then ve'll be awkward and uncomfortable. And ve _don't want that_." He glared expectantly at Kitty, who merely looked in another direction.

"It's good to see you again," Rogue said. "But Ah have to see the Professor…so we'll catch up later?" Without waiting for a reply, she left the room.

Once in the empty hall, Rogue leaned against the wall and buried her face in her hands. That had been harder than she'd anticipated. All her emotional distress had been so focused on one person, it never occurred to her that she would care so much what others thought, even if they were her closest friends, her family. She had done them wrong, she knew, and how to remedy it was uncertain. It wasn't a terrible thing, solitude. It seemed necessary at the moment anyway.

Regaining composure, Rogue made her way to Xavier's office. The door was ajar.

He was gazing out the window when she entered, profile lit by relentless summer sun. Hearing her enter, he slowly turned around and a soft smile grew on his sagely face, as though he were welcoming the return of a soldier from a cold, brutal war. His kind eyes looked her over, "Well, child, I cannot complain to Mr. Cassidy that he has been neglecting you."

Rogue stood with her hands clasped lightly in front of her. She examined the Professor carefully and it was as she feared: he seemed older. Two years had flown for her, what with all the work and activity, and she felt better for it. But the Professor, the dear Professor, seemed careworn, tired. Much to her surprise, she was sad to see Xavier's mortality so blatantly. Years ago he had seemed an ageless creature of wisdom and unfaltering strength. Now he was...

"An old man," Xavier sighed. "You look at me now and that's what you see, is it not?" He smiled kindly, "Dear Rogue. While I might have withered a bit over the years, you have blossomed."

Tears welled in her eyes. This man, who had been a stranger, who turned surrogate father, who saved her life—Rogue did not realize how much she had missed him.

He seemed to be examining her. He frowned every few seconds, tilted his head slightly, frowned again. Then he relaxed and spoke with an indiscernible tone, "I want to make one thing perfectly clear, Rogue."

She clasped her hands tighter.

"In your former condition these words would only have incited hate and resentment, so I did not voice them. And though it has been a long while, I respect you too much to spare you their veracity: Your previous behavior was selfish, inconsiderate, spiteful, damaging, and hurt many of your friends."

She did not look away, but held a steady gaze.

"Not only did you hurt them, you hurt yourself all too palpably, and what's worse, you relished in it, Rogue. You relished in your self-inflicted pain as a sort of punishment for some wrong you did not commit. And that, Rogue, that hurt us more than any of your reclusive demands.

"I only wished for you to know that," Xavier said. He seemed to grow more tired. "But also to know that it is in the past. Do not think we didn't understand you were in pain. We knew and we helped in the only way we knew how, though your departure was our last resort. Now it is past, and the past is where it will stay. We have no desire to dig it up."

Rogue had to admit she felt rather miffed at such a rant, but it was the last traces of the recalcitrant urges of her angsty teen years. She had not looked away from the Professor the entire time, but now drew her eyes down to her feet.

"Have you nothing to say?"

She looked up again and sighed, "Ah'm sorry. For givin' up, for not caring. Y'all taught me better than that. Ah don't regret all this time with X-Corps, but… Ah am sorry. Really."

Xavier nodded in understanding. Apology accepted. And like he'd just said, it was all the past. "You seem like a different person, Rogue."

"Ah am."

"Is this a good or bad thing?"

"Good, Ah think…Ah'm not sure. But it feels like a good thing."

"How do you feel, being back here?"

Rogue sighed again and shrugged, "Ah don't know. Ah haven't had much time to really think about it since Ah got back." She frowned, "How's Mr. McCoy? Are they really pressing charges?"

The Professor rubbed his tired eyes, "I spent two hours talking it over with the DA and other officials. They are fighting for an arraignment. I suspect there is inside influence against Hank …" He paused, looking at Rogue quizzically. "And I don't want you involved."

"Funny. That's what Logan said. But Ah wasn't plannin' on listening to him."

"I have no wish to argue with you, but is this not your time to relax?"

She laughed humorlessly. "Ya know that thing where when ya got nothin' to do and ya start brooding about stuff? Ah was kept busy, Professor, for two years Ah was busy. Time of my life, really."

"I see what you mean. Still, I would prefer it if you played a passive role in all this. I'm sure you know what's been happening around here and it could get messy. Logan and Ororo will have it under control. I want you to rest."

Rogue fought the urge to argue. Maybe for a few days (as in one or two) she really would step back and let others take care of the problems in the world. Still, the itch to act was awful hard to ignore. "Ah'll…try," was all she could muster to oblige.

"Good." The Professor looked her over again. He seemed fascinated by the change in her. Rogue had always seemed very mature for her age, but from that Gothic teenager of years ago to this stunning young woman—it was more than her appearance. She carried a serene air of intelligent surety. Steady. Grounded. Like a rock, enduring and strong. The contrast was hard to ignore. "Have you been taken care of? Linens, food?"

"Ah-huh, Ah'm good. Need to unpack."

"It's good to have you home, child. It truly is."

Rogue offered a heavy smile. Unexpectedly, she moved around the desk and gave the Professor a hug. He was surprised by the gesture, but patted her back fatherly. "Thank you, Professor. It's good to be back." Then she left the room and closed the door softly behind her, leaving her mentor to wonder as to what her return would bring.


	4. Resurrect

**Whoa so I know it's been, as a reviewer has informed me, **like 10 months since my last update -- which I realize is quite absurd since I used to be such a frequent updater. But like with all things reality catches up to you, and do I wish I could gush about the heinousness of my realities lately. I won't, don't worry. But do read on. I keep forgetting what this sequel is actually about because there are so many intricate arcs and complications in plot...but I hope it all works out!

Sorry again for taking so long. I'm alive and still writing though.

much love,

the author

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Resurrect **

The bell rang to signal lunchtime. Throngs of yapping kids poured out of classrooms, and rushed to miniature lockers plastered with magazine cutouts, packed with makeup, lunch bags, and random playthings.

The sky was the blue of robins' eggs, and one had to squint from the bright sunlight when first stepping outside. Most of the kids sat outside.

The picnic tables were sensitive territory. Specially designated areas, only particular kids with particular friends could sit at particular tables. The picnic tables were filled so thoroughly that many of the other junior high schoolers—the ones without the friends or unendorsed titles—sat on curbs, the school steps, or under trees. The social divisions were more visible out here than inside.

A group of seven kids always sat at one table, farthest from the others. Their locale was somewhat appropriate for them: they didn't like being near the others anyway. They were the school outcasts. They were the mutants.

"I don't get why Becky Parsons is so popular," a scaly-skinned girl said. Her friends called her Adder, after her serpentine appearance. "She's not even pretty. It's all just thinness, clothes, and hair. I mean, have you looked at her face, like _really_ looked at her face? That nose and the placing of her eyes…no Kate Moss that's for sure."

A lean boy, whose hair stood up in metal spikes, huffed: "She's just easy." His steely eyes gleam with good-natured mischief, "Had the whole basketball team."

"Lance! Shut up, that's nuts!" cried a red-eyed girl in disbelief.

"And she's a rich flatscan," a fish-lipped boy said. "She thinks she's better than everybody. She steps on everyone."

"I'd like to see her step on me," Adder smirked. Her forked tongue slipped out of her mouth, slowly licking her brown lips.

"Doesn't she hate you?" Lance asked.

"She's afraid of me. But that didn't stop her from making our friends' lives hell. We're the only ones left that haven't transferred out."

"I didn't forget." Lance looked in the direction of Becky Parsons' table. Some of the girls were casting him fleeting glances. It was an unspoken veracity: Lance was gorgeous, despite his mutation. He was the guilty pleasure of many girls, their only ever mutant crush.

Adder bristled slightly. "What are they drinking?"

All of Becky's friends, and their surrounding tables, were swigging from identical cans of electric blue design. They seemed to enjoy it, their faces lighting up with delight at the taste of this mystery beverage.

At the edge of the courtyard stood the source: a small table stacked with cans, two young representatives handing them out. The sign read: REVIVE.

"You guys want some?" Lance asked, already standing up.

Adder scowled doubtfully, "I wouldn't trust it."

"Oh, come on," Lance said, "we should be able to have some, too." The others agreed. When he went to get a few cans, a buzz trailed behind him.

The mutie's going for it.

The mutie wants our stuff.

Lance returned and shared the spoils. Revive had a refreshingly fruity taste, a unique tang they'd never experienced in a soft drink that left them feeling strangely refreshed. Lance fetched them seconds. He wanted his friends to be able to enjoy things like the regular humans.

Adder watched them empty the cans, a strange dread growing in her stomach. She glanced back at the distributors several times and decided she didn't like how eagerly they handed out their product. For some reason, she had a very bad feeling about it all, an acute sense of dejavu.

X

The cell, put lightly, was less than comfortable. With only a rough cot and unkempt toilet in the corner for an inmate's comfort, it was far from a penthouse suite yet high enough above wretched poverty that Hank McCoy's humble nature could not complain. There was one thing to be grateful for after all: he did not have to share his cell since none of the other prisoners would have him. Something about his appearance, made them fear being eaten or mauled. Or something.

Presently, Hank sat upon the questionable cot (when was it last washed?), legs crossed and hands resting upon his furry blue knees. He practiced mellowing breathing exercises with his eyes closed and paid no heed to the guard that deposited his bland dinner. Only when he sensed a more desirable presence did his attention return to the physical world.

"Hank?"

The cell door opened and closed. Two people had entered.

"Figured they'd give ye crap to eat. 'Ro brought a basket. I threw in the cigar."

The beast doctor opened his blue eyes and smiled pleasantly. "Ah, my friends, how kind of you to call." Taking the basket Ororo offered, he sifted through its rich contents. "Mmm…cheese, French baguette, smoked turkey, fruits and nuts…the makings of a picnic."

Ororo also handed Hank a leather-bound novel. "I remember you're a fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You haven't read _The Lost World,_ I believe."

"Alas no, I admit I was always caught up with the caprices of Holmes and Watson. Thank you my friends, I am very grateful." He glanced at them quizzically, "About yesterday, if my eyes did not deceive me, I do believe I saw a magnificent stripe-haired mutant in City Hall."

Logan sighed and scratched his head. "Yep. Rogue's back, and more of a fighter than I ever saw."

"She was stunning," Ororo breathed. "She executed her powers with such _grace_. And so many of them as well."

"Yes, her unrelenting control is quite impressive," Hank agreed. "But I am anxious about the extent of her mutant abilities. I was unable to properly examine her before, but now that she seems so...stable, it seems a necessary step in her recovery. And what more, who can know what she was exposed to in all those travels, if she was properly inoculated or given even the most standard of medical—"

Logan coughed gruffly, "Hank, I think you got bigger problems right now. They ain't givin' you bail?"

"No hope for it, my friend." Hank sighed neatly through a bite of baguette and cheese. "The judge seems to believe Charles would help me to run away to Sri Lanka, or some land farther away. Pity, really. I should like to go to Sri Lanka."

His visitors exchanged worried glances. The doctor seemed to be handling his predicament a little too well, as if he didn't really care what the outcome was.

"Hank," Ororo entreated, "are you all right?" She was concerned about how the day's disappointment might affect him.

Hank sighed and set aside the food. He leaned against the cell wall, closed his eyes as though falling asleep. "Ororo, Logan, I can assure you my despondency is fleeting. It bothers me, though, I won't lie. Today's award was not just for me, you understand. I felt it was for all our kind, a testament to the progress the public is finally making toward acceptance. Even the upsurges in violence have helped us somewhat, made people see we too are humans who suffer, who cry, who bleed. But now the judge and the district attorney—Mr. John Abernale, my golf partner!—have forgotten. They've forgotten in a moment's primal fear. And it certainly does not help that neo-Nazis like the Friends of Humanity—however small—are gaining more support with their skewed, radical views…"

"Hank, Hank," Logan scowled, "don't let it get ye down—wait, what'd you say about Friends of what?" A strange expression had befallen his rugged face.

"The Friends of Humanity, a new anti-mutant group. Very small. Hardly any political clout, though they are rising in numbers and influence every day."

"Right…right," Logan murmured, thinking. He shook his head, said, "Anyway, don't let all this trash bother you."

"Excuse me, Logan, but I think I will let it bother me for a bit. Some wallowing is healthy for the soul in small dosages."

"Suit yourself. Thing is, we all know this ain't proper protocol for something without solid evidence. Maybe if you had a late night walk, if ye know what I mean."

Ororo shook her head, "A jail break would only incriminate Hank even more. No, we must try to fix this through the system."

"What system, 'Ro?" Logan demanded heatedly. He cracked his knuckles. "It's all against us. You think Hank's got a lickin' chance in their court?"

"John Abernale has been a strong supporter of mutant rights," Ororo said confidently. "He is only a bit shaken now. He will not abandon us—his beliefs are strong. Hank is safe here and easy for Abernale to access. Even the law cannot be cheated too easily."

"Right. And this Mutant Registration Act that the Circus is about to enact—"

"Congress has not passed it, Logan."

"But they will. And that's only the beginning. Soon we'll be seein' the mutant version of Jim Crow Laws all over this goddamn country."

A frigid gust suddenly blew through the jailhouse. The guard yelped as the papers on his desk scattered into a mess. Logan raised an eyebrow at his white-haired companion.

"I do not appreciate your pessimism," she said simply.

Logan shrugged, "Fair 'nough."

"Friends, friends." Hank picked up _The Lost World_ and flipped onto the exposed ceiling pipes. Hanging comfortably from his feet, he turned to the first page. "I believe there are more productive things to be doing?"

"You bet." Logan lowered his voice, leaning toward Hank a little. "There's some strange stuff happenin', Hank. I'm smellin' something bigger than a few ruffled feathers of the locals. Rogue got her hands on a weapon from the Mayor's attacker, the detonator, and it ain't officially issued anywhere, which means—"

"A private manufacturer," Hank interjected.

Logan nodded, "The most dangerous kind."

"And you wish for me to be your eyes and ears within this jail, where mutant terrorists are most likely to wag their tongues on the subject of their bigoted extracurriculars."

"Well, yeah, pretty much, 'cept I wouldn't put it so eloquently."

"Unpleasant subjects are in dire need of euphemisms."

"Fair 'nough."

Hank nodded in confirmation, "I'm glad to do my part."

Ororo put a hand on his upturned shoulder, "Will you be all right here?"

"Of course. It's not the first time I have been caged." Hank watched his friends leave. As he settled into the book, he consciously listened to the voices coming from the other cells. His parallel attention tracks allowed him to focus on multiple things at once, depending on how much energy he wished to give. At the moment Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was more interesting than the glib talk around. He would tune into his jail-mates later.

X

Her feet left puddles when she stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around herself, she stood before the sink and splashed cold water on her burning face. That was when she realized just how faded the mental barrier was. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—the high cheekbones flushed from the hot water, the ivory skin and piercing green eyes, tendrils of rich auburn hair, the white strips. It was neither vanity nor conceit that made her see her own beauty, yet she saw it in a detached manner, as if the reflection did not belong to her; it belonged to some girl called Rogue that she barely knew.

And as she felt the memory block fade a little more, the rush of feelings came like an unsteady drip. Always a little at a time. And the same questions sprang to mind:

_Why didn't he come back?_

_Didn't he want this?_

_Wasn't Rogue good enough anymore?_

_Did he find someone else?_

_Had it all been a lie, a dream, the worst thing that ever happened to her….?_

She rubbed her temples. It was easier to keep control these days, but sometimes, thinking about two years ago, about all the time since, the energy stored in her mind and body reverted back into a burden of personalities. So she sought distraction at its every availability. Emotion could not be allowed to enslave her.

With swift determination she wiped herself down and towel-dried her hair. She had to get used to the new potency of her memories. Movement with purpose always buffered the progression.

The mental block did not completely drown her memories from consciousness. The first one had been placed by the Professor, then after some learning, Jean. Elizabeth Braddock, England's most capable telepath, had been the latest. All of them helped Rogue in the same way: their mental barriers dulled the potency of her memories—she remembered them the way an old woman would think about a lost lover of her youth, an old woman with a lifetime to come to terms with it.

She dressed, pulling on jeans and a black long-sleeved blouse. Sitting before the dresser, she applied moisturizer to her skin and fluffed out her hair. She reached for the make-up next, but paused, fingers hovering over the containers and brushes.

There had been a time when she strived to be beautiful, when she took extreme care in grooming herself, in seeking a prettiness she never realized she had. Remy didn't come back for a reason, after all, and if she just made herself beautiful enough for him—for when, if, he finally did return—then he would love her again. Just maybe. She just wasn't pretty enough, that was the problem. There were so many beautiful women in New Orleans and he had become distracted. But when he came back…

That was when she still believed he would come back. She turned away from the makeup. Why bother? She was fine the way she was.

Then, like a habit that never dies, she reached into a drawer and pulled out black gloves. She felt safer once they were on. Pulling her sleeves over her wrists, she stood just as someone hurried past her door.

She stuck her head out into the hall in time to see Jubilee hurry down the staircase. Frowning in curiosity, Rogue followed her to the war room, where mission briefings and debriefings were given.

Every X-Man was present, even the youngest ones. Rogue got the feeling she had purposely been excluded, but squelched her irritation. They probably thought she was sleeping. She watched secretly from the doorway.

The Professor had been speaking: "…that there has been an incident at several junior high schools in the area this afternoon. No humans have reported injury. The hospitalized victims were all young mutants, with symptoms of intense abdominal and cranial pain."

A mild buzz echoed about the room. Everybody was speaking at once. Rogue looked at all their faces, noticed how much some of them had changed: Jamie was taller, leaner, and his face had lost some of his babyish cuteness; Rahne seemed even more sporty and nubile, if that were possible; Bobby leaned against the wall, lips tightly set in perpetual moodiness; Kurt's blue fur seemed richer and thicker, while his physical features had grown more chiseled. The others were different in their own ways.

Rogue's scrutiny landed on Kitty last and for a moment they locked gazes. Rogue was afraid Kitty would give her away, but she merely ignored Rogue, which might have been more insulting. Rogue couldn't really decide. It worried her, this discomfort around Kitty. They had always been able to talk to each other, despite blatant differences. It was like that age-old cliché: opposites attract. Rogue and Kitty—night and day—were good at being friends. But things had grown so complicated since then.

"…as of yet we know nothing for certain," Xavier was saying, "I am sending Scott and Jean to investigate at a few of the schools. Please stay calm. I know you are thinking of what happened before with Guy Spears, but it is too early to jump to conclusions. Normally I would spare you all these details, but because of the upsurge in violence these days, I believe the more you know, the better you will be prepared to handle unforeseen situations. With that, Logan has something imperative to share."

A grim silence fell over the room as Wolverine took the stand. Storm operated the computer, and as Logan began to speak, the image of a man Rogue had never seen before flashed onto the screen:

"As many of you _don't_ know, Rogue got her hands on the weapon the mayor's attacker tried to use—the detonator for the bomb. She had it checked, I had it checked—it doesn't come up anywhere official which means it's an illegal toy the big boys are makin' themselves. Long story short, I spent the last 14 hours out on the streets 'researchin''.

"My last lead took me to a bar where I found Oliver Merrimac, an anti-mutant activist I had busted some months back. Back then he wore this badge in the shape of an eagle, with the initials F.O.H. on it. When I located him last night, he had the same badge, only an updated version with fancy emblem and all that garbage. Once again, I thought nothing of it, until our visit to Hank this morning. Hank mentioned a new anti-mutant activist group: the Friends of Humanity. This bub here's their leader, Graydon Creed."

All eyes turned toward the projected image, giving it a really good look for the first time. Rogue narrowed her eyes. Everything about Graydon Creed radiated negativity, as if whatever internal hate he harbored had etched its way to the surface, into the creases of his perpetually-glaring face.

"It don't take a rocket scientist to see a correlation between a bunch o' mutant-hating zealots and the surge of violence in the neighborhood," Logan continued. "So I'm planning a reconnaissance mission. Merrimac gave some useful information, after some coercin', so we know where to hit. Volunteers?"

"Take me."

All eyes turned to the doorway. Boldly, Rogue strode into the war room until she was in full view of all eyes. "I've dealt with people like this before. You could use me on this mission."

Logan's brows furrowed slightly, "What'd I say 'bout ye takin' it easy?"

"Yeah, about that, you know how Ah get restless."

"And you know how to follow orders. I ain't takin' ye."

Rogue frowned, knowing if there was a spectacle she had brought it upon herself by being so bold and public, yet she was unable to care about what they thought. At this realization, she was surprised. "If you're mission's reconnaissance Ah'd be the most logical choice. Ah'm all the X-Men in one package and ya know it."

Her statement was nearly arrogant but no less true. Everyone waited for Logan's reaction, expecting a sharp retort, a strategic reprimand. No one expected him to ignore Rogue completely and shot looks to Shadowcat, Nightcrawler, and Jean, "Gear up and be ready by nightfall." To Rogue, "Go get yourself an iced latte, Stripes. You're not needed." Then he turned and left the war room.

After a few seconds uncertainty, the rest of the team began to file out, everyone shooting fleeting glances at Rogue before exit. Xavier lingered, Ororo at his side. "Rogue…" he began. He noticed the tense stance of her shoulders, the tight cross of her arms.

"Ah get it, Professor," she said, eyes staring straight ahead. "Ah don't take it personally. Y'all just want me to relax. Guess Ah'll just find some other way of amusing myself if Ah'm not needed." The words rang in her head. She never realized that she wanted to be needed, by her friends. By him. Which made sense. If he didn't need her, what reason could he have to come back. If he didn't need her… She stopped that track of thinking. Don't be so sad. Don't be like this. She looked at her mentors, "An iced latte sounds good." With a half-hearted smile she left the war room.

X

"Tall, grande, or venti?"

Rogue blinked. "Um…venti I guess."

"Whipped cream?"

"Um…what? Why?"

"Would you like whipped cream on your mocha?"

"I ordered a latte."

"Oh, sorry ma'am. So that's an iced venti caramel latte?"

"Yes."

"Soy, whole, regular, or nonfat milk?"

"Nonfat. I guess."

"That'll be three forty-six."

Sighing, Rogue paid the woman and moved to the pickup counter so the next customer could order. She hadn't intended to actually get a latte, but with nothing better to do with her evening... She recalled Jubilee and Rahne's invitation to a girl's night-in complete with ice cream, pizza, and chick flicks. Rogue hadn't been able to suppress the cringe that leapt to her face.

"Oh…well, if you're not into it, that's fine," Jubilee had said, shrugging sheepishly. "I mean, what were we thinking. Not even the old Rogue was into that really."

"Old Rogue?"

Jubilee's almond-shaped eyes widened. She glanced at Rahne nervously, "Oh, not that you're like totally different now or anything. I mean, you're the same. Sort of. Well, not really."

"Two years is long," Rahne interjected. "And you're just…kinda different. We figured you grew to like girly things. But I mean, that's kinda dumb, now that we think of it because you were kinda just off fighting international criminals and terrorists and doing that army gig…anyway did you have to wear fatigues?"

"Iced venti nonfat caramel latte!" A tall plastic cup landed on the pickup counter.

Rogue snapped back to attention and retrieved her drink. She didn't realize how big it would be, but after taking the first sip, didn't mind the quantity. She walked out of the coffee shop area and began meandering about the strip mall, no destination in mind, no purpose. Maybe spending a harmless night with the girls, re-grounding herself, wouldn't have been so unbearable, wouldn't have driven her mad with restlessness.

"What am Ah doing," she sighed to herself. There was so much to do. It was not like her to be so unproactive. Who cares what Logan or the Professor wanted. They were not in charge of her; she was no longer his ward. And she had just thought of one person she had a few questions for. Governor Thompson would be having a visitor tonight in the hospital.


	5. Machiavellian

**Chapter 5 - Machiavellian**

The night shift at the hospital was solemnizing in the Rehabilitation Unit. In fact, rehab was almost always calm, save for the rare convulsion or panic spell that a wayward patient might have. The nurse presently manning the desk was reading the latest copy of_Cosmopolitan_ and wondering why young women were so eager to absorb such male-propagated tripe. She glanced up as two men approached her counter. "Excuse me, but visiting hours—" She paused, recognizing Mayor Thompson's lawyer, cleared her throat, "—are over."

The lawyer smiled amiably, "We understand, ma'am, but the Mayor expects my counsel this evening."

The nurse's eyes, lashes clumped by too much mascara, darted to the clock hanging over the wall as if confirming to herself that visiting hours were indeed over. She looked from the lawyer to the other man. He was dressed in an unwholesome red suit jacket, his eyebrows seemingly stuck in a perpetual frown, "And who is this gentleman?" There was something menacing in his look.

"My colleague Graydon Creed, ma'am," John Abernale said. "He will be helping me in working the mayor's case. But – as I'm sure you will understand – we can't really discuss these matters." He smiled.

The nurse narrowed her eyes but sighed. With a wave of her hand in the correct direction, "You know the way, sir."

"Thank you very much, ma'am. We hope you have a good evening."

"I'd choose better reading," Graydon Creed said in passing. He ignored the look of offended disbelief, turning to follow Abernale. "Why do you bother with the help," he huffed.

John Abernale did not blink or twitch. "I have no interest whatsoever in hearing your radical and ill-informed criticisms." He stopped before the mayor's room, knocked, and after a "Come in", stepped aside, "The only reason you are here, Creed, is at the bequest of my friend and client. After you."

Graydon's mouth formed a mild sneer, but said nothing. He moved into the room, which smelled uncomfortably sterile. Shadows dominated the walls as only two lights near the bed were lit.

Mayor Richard Thompson looked ready to deliver a speech. Though dressed in a backless hospital gown and white cotton robe, he lay supported by several pillows, reading glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and a copy of the day's newspaper splayed over his lap. That look of addressing important business hardened his face. He was trying hard to avoid looking in pain before this rising young leader he did not yet trust.

"Good evening, Mr. Creed. John."

"Hello Richard," Abernale came around the cot to the table beside. He opened his briefcase, pulling out a file. The label read: City of New York vs. Henry McCoy. "How's the wound feeling?"

"They've got me on so many painkillers I can hardly tell which body part is which," Thompson drawled. "If I wasn't a war veteran, I'd be giving in to all these drugs."

Graydon Creed suppressed a snicker, "That's how they get to you."

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if there was anything I could get you, sir?"

The mayor shook his head, "No, I'm all right for now. Let us just get down to business, eh? John, I got your message. I know he's your friend and all but if the evidence is that incriminating—"

Abernale was flipping through the folder in his hands. "It's only incriminating if you look at it from a certain point of view, Richard. Yes – your security guards were strangely lacking. Yes – Henry McCoy is a mutant. Yes – public opinion these days does not support mutants—"

"And am I not supposed to pay attention to that, John? I'm a public servant. How will it look if I completely disregard the peoples'…." His voice trailed away as if realizing a fallacy in his thoughts.

"The peoples' demand blood?" John Abernale said, narrowing his eyes.

The mayor huffed, "Now _that's_ a rather melodramatic way of looking at things, isn't it, John?"

The lawyer shook his head gravely, "You know as well as I do how 'smart' mobs of people are. That's not constitutional. That's not justice. I pushed to put McCoy in jail to keep mobs from storming the Xavier Institute. It's a mess out there, Richard, and not enough resources are being allocated into education about mutants. I'm only here to prosecute criminals – not victims of hate crimes. That's not—"

Graydon Creed rudely cleared his throat. Both men turned to look at him. "Gentlemen," he said, "let's not get into unproductive philosophical debates! What we need to do is make a decision. And I think it is clear that the evidence points to a court date and a hefty conviction. This wouldn't be the first time a respected scientist were proved treacherous."

Abernale spoke to the mayor, "Remind me again, why this man is necessary."

"He's the leader of the Friends of Humanity, John."

"Why did you bring him _here?_This is a meeting for the public arena. Clandestine operations are unattractively surreptitious."

The mayor squirmed a little uncomfortably in his cot. "I thought it would be prudent for all parties to get to know each other first in a…comfortable environment…though I realize this is highly conventional. Still – there's little time and I won't use this hospital bed as an excuse to push things back. Apologizes, Mr. Creed, I don't mean to speak of you as if you weren't in the room."

Graydon shrugged, "No offense taken, sir. I'm grateful for all the exposure to internecine politics that I can get."

"Fact of the matter is, John, I know you don't agree with the ideas of this new group—but we can't ignore that their voice is rising to a cacophonous chorus, with more and more of the public leaning toward them…"

"That is very true, sir," Graydon Creed interjected, looking at Abernale. "We are not a hate group as the mutants will tell you. We are only proponents for the safety and rights of non-mutants. It's quite obvious that these creatures have unfair advantages over the rest of us with their 'special abilities'. Someone – some conglomeration with influence – needs to watch out for Average Joe. Am I wrong?"

Abernale sighed and flipped through the file. "McCoy has no previous criminal record. The weapons used in the attack were unidentifiable – CIA, Interpol, Europol, everyone."

"Mutant invention obviously!" Creed said, throwing up his hands.

"It's all circumstantial evidence, Richard," Abernale said flatly.

Creed smiled, "You're an esteemed prosecutor. I'm sure you can swing things…"

The mayor cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, John. You know what must be done. You're the DA."

"You can issue clemency. To press charges isn't—"

"Political suicide," Graydon Creed said under his breath.

"John this isn't the end of the world."

"Perhaps not for you. What comes next. How high must I take the conviction? Attempted homicide on a public official? That's a serious offense, Richard."

"The courts take time, John. This will give us time to address the matter of mutants on a wider scale. There is new legislation on the table—"

"Oh, you mean the Mutant Registration Act. That's been a comforting prospect," Abernale scowled.

Outside, rain began to fall. Heavy droplets pattered against the window but none of the men noticed. Clouds boiled in the dark sky as if censuring the meeting held within that hospital room. A lithe figure stood upon the window ledge. Droplets of lukewarm summer rain slid between tendrils of her auburn hair. Tiny bubbles of water hung trapped from her thick lashes, framing green eyes that seemed shadowed with dark thoughts.

Rogue stared into the hospital room, watching Mayor Thompson with a look of contempt. She didn't know much about American politics these days, especially not of the local New York variety—but what she had gathered from eavesdropping so far did not help her form a positive opinion on the mayor. He seemed ill-decided and afraid. Fear was an inhibiting trait in politics, hindering someone who should be a mover of stones to just leave them where they lay, and conform to the old beaten path. But the lawyer with Hank's file in his hands, with that burned look of having been shunned by injustice, he was a man Rogue would give the benefit of the doubt.

"My loyalty is to this government," Abernale was saying.

"That's good to hear, seeing as how you _are_ the DA, John." The mayor took off his glasses and tiredly rubbed his eyes. Perhaps the pain killers were finally getting to him. "This business is settled. You know what must be done."

Abernale's face grew blank, as though donning a mask of professionalism. He packed the file away, shoving it a little rougher than necessary back in his briefcase.

"The ends justifies the means, as one Italian philosopher so put it," Graydon Creed said.

Rogue saw Abernale roll his eyes. She looked at the youngest man of the three, the one with the harsh eyebrows and dirt-colored hair that curled at his forehead. There was a smugness about him, a sense of knowing something that Abernale and Thompson were oblivious to or refused to acknowledge. Rogue decided she did not like Graydon Creed.

The meeting was wrapping up. The mayor lay back in the cushions as Abernale led the way out of the room.

Rogue reached with enhanced hearing through the building's walls. She filtered out distracting sounds and zeroed in on the conversation – or lack thereof – between Abernale and Creed.

"…looks like you've got your work cut out for you, buddy."

"How do you mean."

"What with a trial coming up."

"I don't discuss my cases with lobby groups."

"The Friends of Humanity are _hardly_ a lobby group—"

"I think I know enough to form my own opinions."

"Listen pal, I know you don't like me a whole lot and that's fine. But I'm guessin' we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks, months…" There was a sneer in Creed's voice. An elevator bell dinged. "…we're on the same side, brother. We're fighting for the people."

"We are not on the same side."

Rogue teleported from the twelfth floor down to the parking area. Perched atop the main hospital atrium, she waited until Abernale and Creed emerged. The lawyer pulled out an umbrella and walked briskly to his car without a farewell to Creed. Graydon merely stood outside, out of the rain, and lit a cigarette despite several No Smoking signs decorating the area. After a couple minutes he whipped out a cell phone and dialed a six digit number.

_Odd_, Rogue thought. _What line would that connect to?_ It certainly wasn't a New York area code. It didn't even have enough digits to constitute a serviceable phone number.

She zoomed in to memorize it. 613136.

"'ello? ... Yes, I've just met with him…." Creed laughed. The noise grated against Rogue's ears. "They have no idea. Yes….uh huh. It's all working in our favor. …. What now, you have a man coming? What's his name… what do you mean you don't know—sorry. I'll be ready… I certainly _am_ looking forward to the benefit dinner! Being keynote speaker is something that comes once in a blue moon for a man like me. …. Yes, well, they may say it's just a panel event, but everyone knows it'll be a big deciding factor in how the Registration Act will fair in Congress. Yes… I will be ready." He hung up, dropped the cigarette with snuffing it out, and ran toward his vehicle.

Rogue watched him drive away, then floated to ground level. What did all this mean? She wondered if questioning the mayor had been a good idea after all… though he would no longer be awake. Damn it.

Something was going to happen. Something was coming. And somehow it involved New York's mayor, the district attorney, Hank's incarceration, and some sleazy man named Graydon Creed who led a suspicious group called the Friends of the Humanity.

Rogue walked over to the cigarette and crushed the still-burning embers with the heel of her shoe. The with a puff of sulfurous smoke, she disappeared.

X

X

X

The private jet landed on a strip at the John F. Kennedy International Airport. The crew worked more efficiently than any that had ever serviced him.

"Enjoy your stay in New York, Mr. LeBeau," the stewardess said, offering him his trench coat. "Mr. Essex has informed us that a vehicle is here to retrieve you."

"Many thanks, madamoiselle."

The stewardess blushed.

Remy took a final swig of his gin and tonic, shrugged on his jacket, and picked up the one bag he had brought with him. He descended the steps onto the air strip. The New York skyline scintillated. It had been a while. For a moment he forgot about his mission.

A shiny black sedan sat a few feet away from the plane, a feminine figure leaning against its hood. She wore a high-collared black coat and low, wide-rimmed matching hat that shielded her face from sight and rain. She waved languidly. As Remy approached, "LeBeau? You sure do pack light."

"I'm low-maintenance."

Pale green lips curved into a smirk, "Lovely. Perhaps you won't be insufferable after all. Has Essex informed you of the task at hand?"

"Not at all." Remy frowned as he saw a tendril of green hair flutter loose from under the woman's hat. A vague memory surfaced then went away just as quickly. Not being able to see her face was more than a little disconcerting. But when she lifted her chin, settling her acid-green gaze on him, her familiar face caused him to stiffen.

"The name is Malice," the green-haired woman said. "We have a job to do and you will follow my lead."

* * *

**Oh woooowwww it _has_ been a while, non?** I'm really sorry guys for being so caught up in...well..."real life" actually. This has become like a forgotten pleasure for me in the midst of all the real-ness of life. I'm getting ready to leave the country and stuff in a few weeks for 6 months to go off on a few adventures of my own. And I started this years ago - at least 3 years ago - back in high school! Some of you might remember, if I still have those original readers. But yes, I've forgotten about this but not entirely because there is still an intricate plot that I'd like to get out. I don't know how long it will take but I will try my best to get it out. It's got amazing characters, a great story set-up... way to go Marvel. 

And whoa - holla for Gambit in the new Wolverine movie set to come?

Another update soon (hopefully!),

Raven


	6. Seek

Chapter 6 – Seek

**Chapter 6 – Seek**

The auditorium buzzed with a strange and new energy. The high school in Batsto Village had never been so full, people crowding every free space because there weren't enough chairs. The locals knew outsiders were visiting, New York City big-types that were sure to cause a stir, no matter what they had to say. But in the Pine Barrens word traveled fast, and anyone who could crowded the town high school to hear about them, to hear about the mutants.

A decorated lectern had been set up on the stage. A single banner was draped over it, bearing the emblem of an eagle with its wings spread and the letters F.O.H. in bold capitals.

"So, these are all, like, mutant haters?"

"Kitty!"

"What? Am I exaggerating?"

Jean sighed, scanned the faces of those around. Young and old, curious or potential zealot, the locals crowded about with obvious excitement. "Most of these people don't know what's this really about," she said. "We have to give them that much credit, at least."

'Kitty huffed, bending down to pick up a pamphlet that had fallen to the dusty floorboards. "'The Friends of Humanity,'" she read out loud. "'Fighting for the rights of Ordinary People. Mutants pose an immediate threat to our future. They have powers that normal people do not and therefore have an unfair advantage in every aspect of life. Do not let them infringe upon your civil liberties, your God-given rights. Do not let them overpower you with their unnatural abilities. We must band together to ensure a bright future of an untainted gene pool.'… Wow. I can't believe it. This is totally—"

"Marvelous!" A large burly man snatched Kitty by the shoulder, giving her a proud shake, "Someone's got to look out for us normal folk!"

"Uh huh…" She twisted away, narrowing her eyes.

"No mean to offend, lil' one!" the man said. He grinned through a thick mustache. "Just always nice to see young folk taking up the right causes!" After giving her a hearty pat on the back, he went to join his friends, a group of men and women who took up three rows of seats.

Kitty scowled, rubbing her sore shoulder, "Did he have to, like, squeeze that hard? Big crazy townie. God, I wish I gone with Logan to HQ instead…"

"Shush, Kit. Come on." Jean pulled her aside as a man stepped onto the stage. "It's beginning."

The entire hall quieted as a man took the stage. He was dressed modestly in jeans, a flannel shirt, and brown leather jacket. He smiled gregariously, adjusted the microphone to his liking. When he opened his mouth, every whisper died, every eye moved to rapt attention.

"Now you may all be wondering what I'm doing here. You may think that I am a politician…." His eyes projected warmth as he scanned the crowd, "But that is false. I am no politician. I am one of you. And I represent a group of people dedicated to _your _well-being: the Friends of Humanity. Our name is fitting to our cause. I need say no more about it – if you're curious, you can read the literature we've handed out.

"I've come here for one reason. For you. I've come to let you know that we are thinking about you, a small town in New Jersey. Because I believe – the Friends of Humanity believe – you are important in our work. Every individual, unique person.

"I've come here on behalf of our leader, Mr. Graydon Creed…"

A small burst of applause and whistling came from a part of the crowd, the three rows occupied by what seemed like the most enthusiastic of the bunch. Some Batsto Village locals cast them frowns for rudeness, others wide-eyed interest.

"… and he wants each and every one of you to know that the Friends of Humanity will not let mutants run your world. We are looking out for you. And how will we do that, you wonder? For starters, we are working to ensure the passing of the Mutant Registration Act. And when this act comes to referendum—we need _your_ help in making sure the effort is a success. Some mutants can control fire, read your mind, walk through walls…"

Kitty bristled. Jean put a hand on her shoulder.

"…steal your precious things, hurt your family and friends… We deserve to know who they are and where they are. The Mutant Registration Act must become law….."

"I don't want to listen to this anymore," Kitty whispered. She looked around at those staring in rapt attention at the man's speech. Back in Bayville, back in high school, she hadn't really let anti-mutant attitudes get to her. But here, in what seemed like a bubble town disconnected from the complications of the wider world and its hate, it reached. And people like the Friends of Humanity were trying to make it fester and explode. Her stomach had tied itself into knots, her muscles tense with the urge to run away. Far away. She could see that people were eating up the sensationalist speech, believing every word, forming judgmental thoughts.

"Why didn't Graydon Creed come by himself if he loves 'normal people' so much?" she muttered.

Jean shook her head, "He's probably too busy with affairs in New York."

"We didn't even have to come here."

"No, we did. At least we know the type of message they're sending to people now. These things aren't publicized that well. It's apparent that they're really trying to reach into every nook and cranny, gathering as many supporters at possible. We should get a list…"

"…of places they plan to hit on this messed up campaign," Kitty scowled. "Be right back."

Jean nodded. "I'll meet you outside."

The two young women moved at the same time, Jean toward the exit, a pamphlet in hand for documentation.

Moving nondescriptly through the crowd, Kitty worked her way toward the side door to the left of the stage. No one took notice as she opened it and walked through. The high school was built after a simple model. Through one corridor she found the backstage area.

Voices. Two people in conversation, both women.

Kitty pressed herself against shadowed wall. The backstage area was poorly lit, only a few lamps on. From the stage, the Friends of Humanity spokesperson continued speaking, bright lights pouring onto him like sunshine.

_"…it will take all our efforts, each and every vote…"_

The two women stood near the curtain, one wearing a wide-brimmed hat and trench coat, her back turned. She sounded impatient. "…annoying enough as it is to come all the way out to the boonies, you should realize."

"I'm sorry ma'am," the other woman said. She wore a plain suit and clutched a clipboard with several papers on it. One was formatted as a grid and looked like a timetable. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun, openly showing her nervous face. "There must have been some miscommunication. Our branch has been moving east in the campaign and Mr. Creed said we were to rendezvous in Atlantic City."

"Well, aren't you just a busy little bee, lady," the other woman said. There was something familiar about her voice. "I heard differently. Maybe I can take this up with Graydon to see what he thinks."

"Please, ma'am, I didn't… we're a little short-staffed. It's an honest mix-up—"

"No. I don't think so." The woman stepped toward the stage, stared at the spokesperson as he continued on.

_"…make sure to do your duty as a human being to keep the mutants at bay…"_

As she turned around, Kitty's eyes widened. Her face was familiar, from the green of her lips to lime of her long hair. In a few seconds, Kitty remembered. But this young woman was nothing like the bubbly girl she'd known from two years ago, the one that stole Bobby Drake's heart and never really gave it back.

Lorna Danes sneered at the campaign manager, "You had a simple task. A simple delivery. Are you telling me you can't even be a good delivery girl—even as you're standing here as a branch manager to this silly little campaign of yours? We thought this would be the safest, most surreptitious, and _easiest_ way to get this to me. But you're just giving me a headache." Her young face projected an older persona, one that seemed to have done and seen more than her years should have allowed.

"I…I have the package. Back in my hotel. I can fetch it for you now…"

"You couldn't have said this sooner? Go. Now. You're already too slow."

The frazzled woman walked away quickly, digging into her purse for car keys. In her hurry, she didn't notice Kitty's hand reach from the shadows and in seconds, phase through her body, to the clipboard, and phase the campaign schedule out of her possession.

Kitty tucked the paper into her jacket, mind spinning, wondering how in the _hell_ Lorna Danes ended up here working with the Friends of Humanity of all people and how messed it was but at least it filled in some missing information since she disappeared so abruptly from the Institute making Bobby a worried mess and how the Professor couldn't locate her—

"I know you're there."

Kitty froze, spun around to meet a fold-out chair as it slammed into her side. The wind was knocked out of her as she flew against the opposite wall. Groaning in pain, she lifted herself slowly from the floor.

"Now I don't know who you are, but I don't like being spied on."

Struggling to get air back in her lungs, Kitty felt herself being lifted by the zippers of her jacket, by the metal buttons of her jeans. _What the…Magneto…?_

"And you're going to tell me what you're doing here." She turned Kitty to face her, green lips curving into a malicious sneer.

"Oh, God," Kitty gasped. "Lorna Danes. What are you doing?"

The name caused a flicker of recognition in those lime green eyes, right before they darkened in anger. "Don't call me that!" she screeched.

Kitty screamed as she was thrown into the curtain of the stage. Wrapped in dusty cloth, she barreled into the lectern, knocking over the Friends of Humanity spokesperson and causing the audience to shout in surprise. Beams of support from the catwalk above and chains clattered loudly to the stage, the sound reverberating throughout the auditorium. Kitty slid painfully across the wood, and from under the stage curtain, could hear shouts of the crowd.

"What's going on?"

"Those things are expensive!"

Ignoring the pain, Kitty concentrated and phased through the stage floor. She landed in the school boiler room and fell to her knees. "Goddamnit," she cursed. "Oh, ow. Ow. Ow." Then, a voice in her mind: _Kitty – what happened? The crowd is getting all riled up—are you all right?_

Irritation fueled her movements. Kitty phased herself through the ground until she pulled herself out of the parking lot cement. Jean was standing at the doorway into the school auditorium. She came running, breathless, "What happened?"

"Ran into someone totally unexpected," Kitty winced. She was sore all over. "Let's get out of here. I'll fill you in on the way back to Bayville."

X

Manhattan Island

The head offices were in Alphabet City. Graydon Creed himself had chosen the location because it was spacious, he said, and would be best for the staff, despite the neighborhood's less than sparkling reputation of being crime-ridden and abandoned, an area for raves where youth played too-loud music and partied for too many hours high on uppers.

But such judgments couldn't be made on the 5th floor of that nondescript office building where the Friends of Humanity ran their operations. The organized cubicles and smartly-dressed staff formed a bubble of productive legitimacy to anyone who entered Suite 400.

"And what personal investment, if any, do you have in this cause, sir?" The man looked at the possible recruit from over his wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white collared shirt and blue bow-tie speckled with white polka dots. He had been asking questions for a good 25 minutes.

The response came with a huff, "Ran into a mutie not too long ago. He was diggin' through my garbage like a hobo. 'Cept when I found him, he didn't like that much, hey? So he opened up on me – with his bare hands. Spikes few out. Took out my left knee. Just barely missed my eye. And my boy was with me. He was in the hospital for weeks from an abdominal injury. He's just a kid, man, he doesn't deserve that type of trauma from an animal. Let's not even talk about the financial costs. These things are a menace. And I want the dangerous ones put in jail."

"Is that so? I ran into that same mutant five months ago!" the recruiter exclaimed.

"You don't say…."

"A spiky black boy, yes? With blond hair? I was walking on 5th and I swear to God he popped up from the sewers. I almost ran over him—and he sent so many of these boney spike things into my car it cost me hundreds to repair!"

"Yes, that's the one. That's the very one."

"Absolutely disgusting, isn't it? Living in the tunnels. Digging through other people's refuse… ugh…. What are the odds that two of us normal people could run into the same mutant? Honestly…. All right Mr. Divers. You know, I think you're just the type of person we need to support this campaign."

"Please, call me Logan."

The recruiter smiled, "All right, Logan. I take it you want a more… proactive role in your membership."

From underneath his Yankees baseball cap Logan smirked, "The more hands-on the better, bub." He cracked his knuckles. "All the better."

"We have a special type of membership for that, Logan." The recruiter slid a piece of paper over the table. "Just fill in your information here. And check the box that says 'Field Member'. This will take a couple days to process for official membership, of course, but I can tell after our long conversation that you're just the type of fellow we need. Driven and able. With good faith in the cause. And personal experiences go a long way in that."

"Anything I can do to help," Logan said. "Anytime I can start workin', I will."

"As a matter of fact, there is a big event coming up, Mr. Divers—I mean, Logan," the recruiter laughed. "This weekend. At the Plaza Hotel. We're holding a high caliber fundraiser. And we like to have our own personal security. I'm a good judge of character, Logan—otherwise I wouldn't have this job. And you know what? I think you as a strong strapping man would make a very good addition to our security detail. What do you say?"

Logan smiled, "Glad to do the honors, sir."

"Grand. That's just grand. I'll sign you up. I have a good feeling about you. I think you'll go far with the Friends of Humanity." The recruiter punched some keys into his computer then retrieved a pin from his desk drawer: the emblem of an eagle and the letters F.O.H. "It's a black-tie event. I trust you have something? Good. You'll have to pin this on the breast pocket."

"Swell."

"Good to meet you Logan Divers. And your boy—how is he doing? What's his name?"

"Er, my boy? Kurt. His name is Kurt. And he's doin' just fine now, thanks for asking."

"All right then. This is a formal invitation. You'll have to present this at the door to get directed to the necessary places. There's also a training session on Wednesday. Make sure you go to that. They've been preparing for weeks but with your military experience, I'm sure you'll catch up quick. Here are the directions, times, places. Good luck, Logan!"

"Don't think I'll need it, bub." Logan rose from his chair, tucking the papers and pin into his jacket. He rode the elevator downstairs and out to the street where the X-Van was parked.

"Vhat took you so long?" Kurt Wagner said with an exasperated sigh. "I vas about to leave."

"If you'd done that, you'd have more troubles than boredom, Elf," Logan said. He got into the van and slammed the door shut, shoved the keys into the ignition. "We got what we needed. Now let's go before I barf from all the rotten vibes this place is givin' me."


	7. Encounter

So after I wrote that letter, I started feeling over the next couple days this creative urge to write and try to continue this story as much as I can for now. It's been YEARS so I'm going to be a bit rusty, but if you bear with me, maybe you'll still be as equally entertained by my fic now as you were all that time ago. I hope not to disappoint!

Enjoy.

**Chapter 7 - Encounter**

The explosion occurred at 3pm. Garrison Smith's Brooklyn convenience store was blasted to smithereens in the blink of an eye, his livelihood gone. He was a furry man with glasses, and fangs that stuck out just too far past his lips to be regarded as fully normal.

The reporter on scene must have been a veteran crime reporter. She held the flagged microphone steadily, shooting question after question at the distraught mutant as he stood before pillars of smoke streaming from a scorched building.

_"And what do you have to _say_ to this?"_

_ "I haven't done anything wrong," _Garrison Smith wailed, eyes teary._ "They could have killed me!"_

_ "Do you think that was their _purpose?_"_

_ "Yes. Yes, I do."_

_ "How does this make you _feel?_"_

_ "I-I'm devastate. I don't have any special powers. I just look different. Why did they do this?"_

Rogue switched the channel. CNN.

_"What do you think, Anderson, will this Mutant Registration Act pass?"_

_ "Well, Wolf, it's a sensitive topic for lots of people and brings up similar policies from the past — do we need to be reminded of Japanese internment? Nazi Germany? However, our elected officials must answer to their constituents. A recent poll shows us that 57% of the country wants the Act to become the law of the land. Here we'll turn to Congresswoman Michelle Bachmann, who is on the committee spear-heading this bill."_

Rogue almost smirked. She couldn't wait to hear what this woman was going to say.

_ "Anderson, all I know is this country was built on the hopes and dreams of God-loving people_._ The U.S. Constitution was written by and for those people. Mutants have become a threat to the very foundations of our country, of our way of life. What sort of future will we be leaving for our children if they could run around using their abilities helter-skelter? What is to prevent them from using their powers for their own cynical advantage, to rob a bank or control our own minds? The Mutant Registration Act would allow the government to create the very policies that will protect everyone's livelihood, maybe even protect mutants against themselves, Anderson."_

_ "I think it's safe to say this is an opinion shared by – according to CNN's recent poll – 57% of the United States. Now we'll turn to Graydon Creed, president of the Friends of Humanity, a human rights foundation."_

As Creed's familiar face filled the screen, Rogue thought about all the news she'd seen in the past two days. Random attacks on mutants and humans alike had inundated mainstream media broadcasts, increasing the sense that there was a war going on right outside one's door, in the very communities everyone you knew frequented. Panic was beginning to fester.

_And there are only a few more days till Congress votes on the Mutant Registration Act,_ Rogue thought.

"How can you listen to this garbage?"

Rogue turned around, surprised to see Kitty. "Guess Ah just like to be informed," she replied.

Kitty hesitated a moment, then sat down on the couch on the opposite end.

Rogue momentarily forgot all about anti-mutant sentiment, the Act, Creed, and the infuriating jabber of journalists and policymakers. She looked at her once-close friend and wondered what she was going to do. She hadn't really concerned herself too much with Kitty's animosity toward her since she got back, but now she realized how saddened she was by their estrangement.

"Do you think they're really going to make mutants register themselves?" Kitty suddenly asked, eyes glued to the TV screen.

"Ah hope not," Rogue said and cleared her throat.

Silence.

"Rogue," Kitty said, after a few moments.

"Yeah?"

"Are you really better – or are you just pretending?"

Rogue looked down at her arms. The scars from her knife-happy days were still there, unable to be healed away. She wasn't sure if it was because she really couldn't heal them, or because she just wanted the reminder of her past to be there. "Ah think Ah'm better. Ah really do. And Ah'm really sorry for how Ah treated you before."

"I believe that," Kitty said. "But it's not the same. I don't really trust you in that way anymore."

"Ah don't know how to fix this."

Kitty sighed and looked down, "Me neither, I guess." After a few seconds, she abruptly stood up, "Uh, sorry, I came to find you because Logan wants you."

"What for?"

"He said something about how depressing it is to see you be such a couch potato. We're going to some fundraiser thing? He's going to brief us about it."

Rogue could feel her muscles tense with anticipation, "You mean Ah'm gonna go with?"

"Guess so? Come on, he's in the War Room."

Rogue switched off the TV and followed Kitty out of the living room. They strode side by side through the corridors the way they always used to in high school. When they were just outside the War Room, Rogue pulled Kitty to a stop, "But Ah'm going to try, Kit, to fix this."

Kitty looked at her hesitantly, "I'll try to help."

A voice called to them from inside the War Room, "If you two are done having your 'moment', we can start."

As they entered, they saw only Logan and Bobby had gathered. "Hey...where is everybody?" Kitty asked as she took a seat. She glanced quizzically at Bobby, who didn't seem to notice. He looked as though he were sitting in detention.

"We're not bringing the whole team in on this," Logan said. "I've got Jean, Elf, and Scott on another task. Jean used Cerebro to trace that number you gave us, Rogue."

Rogue bristled slightly that she hadn't been told sooner. How could they be so focused on her "relaxing" that they would cut her out of important developments in intelligence? Then she realized it was probably because they thought she was still delicate enough to go off the deep end again. The thought made her cringe inside. _ Everybody thinks I'm made of glass._ "So where's the source?" she asked.

"Warehouse district in Jersey. But you gotta focus on this tonight." Logan handed her a file. "Everything you need to know is in there."

"What about us?" Kitty asked.

Logan picked a shopping bag up off the floor and slid it across the table to her, "Hope yours and Iceman's customer service skills aren't rusty."

"What?" Bobby finally spoke. He reached into the bag and pulled out white and black uniforms. "You want me to be a waiter? What sort of mission is this?"

"The sort that gets you off your emo ass and out into the world," Logan snapped.

With a scowl Bobby sat back and crossed his arms, "Fine. Whatever."

Rogue looked at him carefully, at the brooding look in his eyes that seemed all too familiar. When he caught her stare, she didn't look away. He shook his head and returned to staring at the table.

Logan continued, "Xavier and Ororo will be attending as guests of John Abernale. It's our your job to watch their backs. I've just been cleared as part of the security detail for the Friends of Humanity."

"I wonder how you pulled that off," Kitty smirked.

"With a lot of teeth-grinding."

Rogue opened the file and saw a profile of a mutant she had read much about in the X-Corps database: Sebastian Shaw.

"Think you can handle this one, Stripes?" Logan asked.

Without missing a beat she said, "I know exactly how to handle this one."

"Good. Kit, Bobby – report to the Plaza at 5. Rogue, you're on at 7."

"Wait – the _Plaza Hotel?_ Omg seriously? That's, like, one of the glitziest hotels in New York!"

"Don't get so excited. We ain't going for the canapés."

As they cleared out of the War Room, Rogue ran through her mind various ways tonight's mission could unravel. She used the protocols Sean Cassidy had developed and trained her with to perfection. After feeling so useless for so many days, she was finally getting back into the field, where she thrived, where her powers had the best possible outlet to expend energy. She would be lying if she told anyone it didn't excite her.

* * *

**Manhattan**

The night air blew an occasional chill, uncanny for late August. Ororo was probably the only person who could notice such a nuanced oddity. Unsettled, she pushed the Professor down the red carpet toward the doors of the Plaza Hotel. They were both dressed for an evening black-tie event, Xavier in a tuxedo and Ororo in a colorful wrap gown of reds, greens, black, and yellows, the colors of her home continent. Her silvery hair was pulled up into a elegant low bun.

Paparazzi and anti-mutant protestors pulsed and flashed cameras at the edges of her vision, held at bay by the NYPD for now. The evening had attracted a lot of attention, not only for the controversial role of the Friends of Humanity, but also for the attendance of many of Washington's prominent senators and representatives. The excitement itself was almost stifling. And there were too many people around. Ororo felt her claustrophobia simmering just below the surface of her control.

"I have a strange feeling about tonight, Charles," Ororo said.

The Professor's gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his mind was ever-vigilant of the activities around him. "Your intuition is rarely wrong, I'm afraid."

"What do you sense?"

"That's the very problem, Ororo, my telepathy is strangely askew, as if I'm trying to see in murky water."

"What could that mean..."

The doormen greeted them with practiced courtesy, pulling the doors of the Plaza open to a grand foyer filled with gold light. The guests and dignitaries filed into elevators that took them up to the rooftop ballroom, where the entirety of one high-ceilinged wall was glass, providing an unrivaled view of the scintillating cityscape. Tables of the finest cloth were decked with the purest china, a group of big band musicians on the stage playing soft tones to set a elegant dinner ambiance. Above the stage hung a large banner: FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE – FORWARD FOR HUMANITY.

"Unbelievable excess," Ororo said.

"Only possible with the most eager of financiers," the Professor agreed. He spotted John Abernale approaching them.

"Ms. Munroe, Charles – thank you so much for coming," the DA said. "I know this must be quite the pill to swallow."

Professor Xavier shook Abernale's extended hand, "I am grateful for the opportunity to be heard."

"As am I. Your speech will come right after Graydon Creed's, and I hope you can drown out all the detritus he'll probably spew. I finally had the chance to visit Hank. I made sure the guards are keep him as comfortable as possible. I assure you he's safe while I deal with the legal proceedings. The mayor is not as reliable as we had initially hoped, I'm afraid."

"You are doing so much for mutants, John," Xavier said. "It's of utmost importance not to put yourself at risk in the process."

Abernale looked around the ballroom at the finely dressed guests of the event. "It's a travesty, really," he said, "all this pomp and show of civilization, as if we were so evolved." He shook his head as if clearing it of dreary thoughts, "But I'm being rude. Come, you're both sitting at my table."

As they took their seats, Xavier scanned the room, trying to make himself aware of every presence. The cloud over his telepathy remained, sometimes sporadic, sometimes all-concealing. Its irregularity made him believe it was unintentional, as if some force were doing it by default, possibly while unaware.

"Champagne?"

He turned to his right to face a white-clad, black-vested Kitty Pryde holding a tray of sparkling champagne flutes. "No thank you, miss."

"Would you prefer the wine, sir?"

"It's all right. I am content with water."

Ororo smiled in amusement, "I'll take a champagne, miss."

Kitty gave Ororo a flute and shot her mentors quick wry glances before ambling away to serve more guests.

* * *

"Why da hell am I here?"

"Aren't you a debbie downer, Mr. LeBeau. It's a party, lighten up."

They stood on the rooftop terrace of the Plaza Hotel, Malice smoking a cigarette as Remy peered through the glass wall to the event in the ballroom. As more and more guests arrived, a sinking feeling began to grow in his stomach.

"Dis the opposite of a party by my terms, _fille_."

Malice's chuckle held a sneer underneath, "As if you've ever been invited to anything this classy." She snuffed out her cigarette and brushed renegade ashes off her black dress. Her lime green hair was bound with so many black ribbons, the unusual color was hardly noticeable. She curled a stray strand around her ear, "Don't mess this up, LeBeau, or you know, your brains will probably explode. Literally." She laughed as though she had made a clever joke. "Come now," she said, "we're going to have a chat with the moneyman."

Remy followed her off the terrace and into one of the back corridors around the exterior of the ballroom. As they walked he watched her movements, remembering the young girl who lay in the Xavier Institute's med bay. How did she get here?

"What are you staring at," she said.

"How old are you anyway."

"What's that matter."

"Seem kinda young."

"So?"

"Where's your family?"

"Are you trying to bond with me, LeBeau? Are we suddenly besties?"

"Must've been hard, leaving y' life behind to work for Essex. To work for a psychotic scientist. Wasn't dere anot'er life you wanted? Wasn't dere dat boy, what was his name...mais, I forget. One o' de X-Men?"

Malice stiffened and for a moment she looked like she was only the young Lorna Danes. Her expression softened, the cynical opportunism that dominated her countenace faded, replaced by the visage of a distressed girl. But as quickly as it happened it disappeared.

"I wouldn't be talking about the X-Men if I were you, 'mon cherie'," Malice said as they reached the end of the corridor. She pushed open a door and waved his path inside, "I'm not the one about to make a few unpleasant encounters tonight."

What did that mean? Remy entered the room, a dimly lit library of dark woods and green velvet surfaces of the sort old Englishmen would meet in to drink brandy and smoke cigars. He sat in one of the leather armchairs as Malice opened a safe in the corner of the room. He watched her pull out a box, set it on a desk, and flip the latches free. What she pulled out was unexpectedly uninteresting: thin metal collars with a red, unlit bulb embedded in them.

"And those are?" he inquired.

"Something an idiot woman at the Friends of Humanity nearly lost," Malice sneered. "But no matter. Now it's ours and Sebastian Shaw will be quite excited to see them." As if suddenly disinterested, she walked away from the items on the desk to the mini bar at the side of the room, poured herself a drink. "I'm going to make a phone call," she said, tossing Remy an empty tumbler. "Have a few swigs and relax, LeBeau. Don't try anything or, quite simply, I'll kill you."

"Y'don' scare me, p'tite."

Malice laughed as she left the room, cell phone in hand, "That's your first mistake." She shut the door behind her.

Finally alone, Remy seemed to deflate. He breathed deeply to calm the anger and vexation that had been writhing in the pit of his stomach. Without a second's hesitation, he snatched up the decanter of whiskey and poured himself two fingers. He gulped it down, relishing the burn in his throat, and wondered what atrocities Malice had in store for tonight.

* * *

It wasn't the ideal way she wanted to attend an event at the Plaza, but the intent of the evening made her stomach clench anyway. A fundraiser for the Friends of Humanity, for the haters of mutants? How was anybody swallowing all the demagoguery? How were these supposedly respectable members of government accepting such a farce on legitimacy?

"This absolutely sucks." Bobby came up beside her with a tray of canapés. "Why'd we come to a stiff fundraiser for rich people anyway?"

"You know why," Kitty rolled her eyes.

"Ok, fine, why the hell do I have to be part of the catering crew?"

"Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your butt you'd have an epiphany!"

Bobby stared at her, surprised by the outburst, "Jeez, Kit, can't a pal vent?"

"That's all you constantly do, Bobby. You're the most depressing guy to be around. As if nobody else has problems?" She sighed, half-regretting the irritation with which she said those words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so mean. I hate being here too. This whole place has tons of negative energy."

"Yeah," he said, before something caught his eye. "Uh, hey, is that...?"

Kitty followed his gaze to a woman approaching them. A dark green dress clung to her curves and fluttered lightly over the floor as she strode. Long sleeves of lace shaped like leafy vines wound around her arms and her otherwise completely naked back from the nape of the neck down to her lower spine. The neckline drooped far down her chest without revealing a single thing. Partially braided blond hair trickled down her shoulders in soft waves that were lightly swooped into a long side ponytail.

Kitty hardly recognized Rogue, "Champagne, ma'am?"

"I vould love one," she said in a thick German accent. "When does zis party get exciting?" She downed the entire glass in one swig.

"Yeah," Bobby agreed, visibly staring at the region below her face. "Exciting."

Kitty stepped on his toe, "Be. Professional. Go cover your part of the room."

As Bobby moved away, Rogue took another glass off Kitty's tray.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Kitty said, "but I should make my way around..."

"Are you not allowed to, what iz it Americans say...'chit-chat'? Shame. I'm so bored."

Kitty stifled a chuckle, "Well, ma'am I hope for your sake things liven up."

_Except not really, because that would probably mean trouble._

_ Ah hear ya. This outfit is way less comfortable than Ah thought it'd be. Ah would def have some difficulty fighting in this._

Kitty wasn't even surprised to hear Rogue's voice in her head. _I hope you don't have to – that dress is too gorgeous to ruin._

_ No kiddin'. _

_ You ready for this?_

_ Why does everyone keep asking me that?_ Rogue sighed in exasperation.

_Um, history? _

_ Fair 'nough point, Kit. Trust me, Ah got this. All that time with X-Corps wasn't spent readin' romance novels, ya know? _She suddenly turned, eyes seeking out something in the medley of people.

"Looks like zsings have juzt gotten more interesting," she said, German again. "Ze banker of ze biogted haz arrived." Rogue knocked back another glass of champagne, placed the empty flute back on Kitty's tray, and sauntered off toward the bar.

Sebastian Shaw plod through the ballroom with the air of someone who had the money, power, and audacity to acquire whatever he wanted, two of his trusted aides behind him. He was one of the country's wealthiest and most influential businessman, though his success certainly didn't stem from his taste in clothing. The barrel-chested magnate wore a dark suit with long coat tails and an old-fashioned frilly cravat tucked into a deep red vest. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back with an almost-laughably silken ribbon. Despite his unusual attire, he lacked no respect from the guests he personally greeted: Senator Kelly of New York state, Congresswoman Haigle of Texas, and Mayor Thompson's wife, there on the hospitalized mayor's behalf.

"All of us at Shaw Industries pray for your husband's full recovery," he said to Mrs. Thompson with the utmost charm and command.

"Thank you, Sebastian. He appreciates your concern, as do I."

"Enjoy the evening, dear Jacelyn! My people have spared no expense to make this a remarkably memorable night for us all."

Rogue watched the charades from the bar. She chose her target from the flock of eager women who stood to attention when Shaw began mingling with his guests, each looking for their window to the big rich man. One of them seemed to be friends with Graydon Creed, an eager redhead that stood by his side with a drink in hand ready to be served.

"Mr. Shaw," Creed approached and shook hands. "I cannot express my gratitude enough for your support. The Friends of Humanity are forever thankful."

"No need, Mr. Creed!" Shaw laughed thunderously and clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him forward a few steps. "We have the same goals, you and I."

"May I offer you this whiskey, Mr. Shaw?" the coy redhead said.

"Just what I needed — "

There. Rogue concentrated on the glass until it tipped forward from the redhead's hand, spilling its contents all over Shaw's frilly white cravat. A second later a bit of commotion erupted as the redhead pawed desperately at Shaw in an effort to dry him up, Creed trying to push her back, and the two aides fussing over their boss.

"Lookz like you need a hand," Rogue called from the bar, waving a white handerchief over a bottle of club soda on the bar counter.

Shaw saw her instantly and a smile curved his bearish mouth. He shooed away his aides as he went to join the gorgeous creature in green smiling at him. He had a thing for blonds. "Timing is essential," he said, "and it's clear you have that skill down pat, miss."

Rogue splashed a bit of club soda onto the handerchief and leaned forward toward Shaw. She began slowly dabbing at the whiskey stains, "I have more zsan zsat in my repetoire, I azzure you."

"What's your name."

"Maxine Köhler."

"Sebastian Shaw."

"You need no introduction, Mizster Shaw."

"Please, Maxine, call me Sebastian."

Rogue didn't think it'd be _this_ easy, but she played the role to her best anyway, just like with the hit in Belgrade with a similar type of bloke. Couldn't risk the mission by being sloppy for a seemingly-easy target. Sean Cassiy would be proud of her performance, if he wasn't too busy scowling at the mission itself. He never approved of using his female operatives in this way. As she smiled and giggled coquettishly at the prattles of Sebastian Shaw, every so often stroking her finger across his forearm, she kept one eye on the goings-on in the ballroom.

The Professor and Storm were seated at their tables in a deep discussion with the DA, John Abernale. Kitty and Bobby were already beginning to serve the appetizers with the rest of the catering crew. All the politicians and dignitaries had already taken their seats. The evening was officially beginning and Shaw had noticed.

"Maxine, my dear," he offered his arm. "Would you be so maganimous as to join me at my table?"

"I vould love that," she smiled.

* * *

He looked like a Men in Black, and it annoyed him. He also hated the fact that he was wearing a suit at a hoity-toity sham of an event. He stood in the top floor security office surrounded by eager beaver goons fresh on the job for the Friends of Humanity. Exactly where he wanted to be on a Friday night.

"How's it going, Logan? Your earpiece workin'?" the chief of security pat him on the back.

It took some effort not to shove him away. "Yeah, bub, all good here."

"You've been assigned to Mr. Creed's secondary security detail."

"That so."

"One of the guys is a no-show tonight, the nerve eh?"

"Absolutely," Logan agreed. Nobody had to know about the shmuck shoved in a storage closet downstairs, knocked out with a tranquilizer.

"Besides, we don't have enough strong-lookin' types like you," the chief said. "It'll send the right message. And your background check cleared – impressive actually – ex Navy Seals?"

"Just another walk in the park, bub."

The chief laughed, "You're all set. Your team leader is over there. Go introduce yourself. Here's your ID tag. Don't lose it or you may be shot on sight."

Logan huffed, "Ain't that a lil' harsh?"

"We don't take risks with mutie freaks. You never know what cursed abilities they'll throw at you. Or who they may be looking like at the moment."

"Right."

"G'luck."

Logan clipped the ID tag onto his suit and checked the firearm at his belt. What a ridiculous charade this was going to be.

A group of other baffoons in black huddled near a computer screen with the schematics of the hotel. The biggest one – a gruff man with a crew cut, probably ex-Marine – was running through an explanation of the Plaza layout, specifically about a discreet room where a meeting between Creed and Sebastian Shaw was to take place.

Amateurs, Logan thought.

"You – what's your name?"

"Divers. Logan Divers."

"Am I boring you, Divers?"

"Just a tad, sir."

Crew Cut sneered and pointed at a man, "Cowan, you and Divers run a preliminary check on the meeting room. Cowan, you run point. Don't let the newb get smart on you."

"Copy that. Come on, newb."

Logan nearly rolled his eyes at the pseudo-professional manner in which these goons conducted themselves. Who were they kidding? They were the security crew for a racist whackjob, not the Secret Service. Without another word he followed Cowan out of the security office.

"Let's take a shortcut," Cowan said. "And maybe nab some booze while we're at it." He lead them through a short hallway into the main ballroom. Glitz and glam greeted their every turn. Cowan made himself right at home, grabbing a glass of wine and some finger food as they made their way inconspicuously along the edges of the hall.

Logan spotted Ororo and Charles at Abernale's table. Sebastian Shaw stood on the stage beside Graydon Creed and a dark-haired woman in a blood red dress he'd never seen before, giving a speech. The whole hall was rapt at attention.

"...here to celebrate the glorious founding of a new organization that watches over humanity's future... and its creator: Mr. Graydon Creed."

Applause filled the hall as Creed stood before the microphone, "Thank very much Mr. Shaw, whose support the Friends of Humanity could never survive without..."

The Professor turned as he sensed Logan. The two met eyes.

_What have you uncovered thus far?_

_ Not much, Chuck. Honestly I'm starting to think we've wasted our time._

_ Far from it, Logan. Abernale tells us Sebastian Shaw is not only funding the Friends of Humanity, but that there are rumors that Shaw is actually a mutant himself. And he's gathered all these politicans in hopes of garnering their vote for the Mutant Registration Act._

Logan bristled, _What? Why would a mutant help mutant haters?_

_ I can't access his mind to find out. Something ominous is here, Logan. I feel it. My telepathy is being blocked._

At that news, Logan's keen senses went on high alert. You always knew things could get real bad when a mutant as powerful as Charles Xavier could be affected. _Don't worry, Chuck. We'll get to the bottom of it._

Cowan had reached the other end of the ballroom, "Hurry up, Divers." He pushed through a door that blended into the wall and led them into a dark corridor. After a few more strides and turns, they entered a sparsely lit room of dark woods and the scent of high quality leather.

"Who the hell are you?" Cowan barked.

When the Cajun stood up with a tumbler of whiskey in his hands, Logan almost laughed at the irony. His actions did not betray his surprise. His first instinct was to extend his claws, but remembered he had a facade to keep up. Wthin seconds of first laying eyes on Gambit, his gun was cocked, aimed, and ready in his hands.

"Offer y'gents a drink?" Gambit gave no sign that he recognized Wolverine.

All too clearly Logan remembered the devil-may-care youth who'd left Rogue in a self-destructive state. Logan hadn't been privy to all the details, but he knew enough to see it was beyond a normal broken heart. Rogue, the toughest girl he knew, had been left in sheer tatters because of this git. He knew all too well what that felt like. And here he was after all this time, Gambit, as glib as ever.

Cowan had also drawn his firearm, "You've got 2 seconds to tell us what you're doing here. I have clearance to shoot at discretion."

"Mais, y'don' leave me much chance t'en, mon ami." Somehow a deck of cards appeared in his hand. He shuffled them effortlessly. The faint glow of a charge crackled on the edges of the top card.

"Hold on there, bub -" Logan's finger tightened over the trigger. He wondered how Rogue would react when he told her he had shot the Cajun. Hopefully she'd be slightly on the schadenfreudistic side.

Suddenly their guns flew out of their hands and floated above a doorway, where a woman in a black dress stood. Her lime green eyes burned with anger, lips tight in a sneer. "What the _hell_ kind of monkey show is Creed running?" she growled.

"M-M-Ma'am," Cowan stammered. "We weren't b-b-briefed."

Lorna Danes. Logan was beginning to feel like he'd wandered into a soap opera, with all the unexpected faces popping up. He also wondered if Lorna Danes had seen him enough around the Institute two years ago to recognize him now. If so, he was going to have a very big problem. He could tell Gambit had a similar thought, standing with his card still charged and ready, red-on-black eyes darting guilefully back and forth.

Malice hovered the weapons above her open palm. Slowly the metal began to crush and crumble under the pressure of her magnetism.  
"Uh...ma'am, is that necessary..."

The two guns were nothing more but a ball of crumpled metal. It fell to the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, rolling to Cowan's feet.

"I'll leave you to explain to your boss how you lost your weapons," Malice said. "Now do your job and try not to fuck anything up."

Cowan eagerly nodded, "Divers, I'll sweep the exterior. You take care of the inside." He disappeared before Malice could give him another terrifying look.

She tsked at Remy for his attention, "I'm going to go fetch our guests. Keep an eye on these two." The door slammed shut behind her. When he was sure she was out of earshot, he let out a sigh of relief and put away his cards. He acted too soon, because the next moment, Wolverine was slamming him up against a wall, breathing hot and angry air into his face through three metal claws gleaming lethally.

"You got some explainin' to do, bub."

"Hey mon frère, let's talk nice..."

"Cut the act, Gumbo. Why you working for this trash?"

"Not like I got much o' choice."

"What are you sayin'?"

"M'sayin' y' best let go f'r I blow this entire room up, Wolverine." The cackle and spark of energy surrounding them carried a threatening heat.

Logan didn't want to blow his cover. He released the Cajun and took a few steps back, "What's their plan?"

"Hell if I knew. T'ey don' tell me much, mon ami." He seemed to hesitate then said, "Y' best get yourself and whoever you brought outta o' here quick."

"What's this meeting about?" Logan demanded.

"Goddamnit, Wolverine, I said I don't know!"

At that moment Cowan re-entered. "They're on their way," he said.


	8. The Things We Cannot See

**Hello Ish and Rogue! **So nice to see you guys are still reading. I def remember you, Ish, from your lovely reviews. I hope the rest have seen that updates are coming and are still enjoying the read!

Btw: I've been browsing the Internet looking at what's been going on in the comicsverse with Gambit/Rogue...and I'm really not loving this Magneto thing. What is the DEAL?

* * *

**Chapter 8 – The Things We Cannot See**

Rogue watched her from her seat at Sebastian Shaw's table. She was tall, an obvious vixen with the contrast of her deep red gown and raven hair, sharp blue eyes, and lithe figure with stunning legs. She was not young, but neither did she look old. A timeless beauty glowed from her skin, making her age all but indiscernible. However, she certainly was no just-blossomed spring flower. And there was something uncanny about her, something completely aberrant yet indistinguishable.

As hard as she tried, Rogue couldn't read the woman, not even when she tapped into the telepathic powers she had stored. In fact, the energies inside her were beginning to behave stranger than usual, reeling with the sort of restlessness that usually came when she was highly distressed and losing her composure.

The Professor had just finished giving his speech, the _clap-clap-clap_ of respectful applause filling the hall. As John Abernale escorted him back to their table, Sebastian Shaw and the woman in red approached Rogue.

"Fräulein Maxine, may I introduce you to my dear friend, Selene."

"Maxine, what a lovely creature you are." A voice like silk and dripping with deception. As the woman in red reached for Rogue's hand, the restless energy within her began to subside. A strange tranquility settled over her mind, a numbness she once tried so hard to achieve. But when they touched, the effect was lost. An unwelcome chill crawled up Rogue's spine.

She snapped out of the peaceful haze and smiled charmingly, "You're too kind. Lovely to meet you Zselene." She felt far away from the present environment, staring at Shaw's friend, who seemed to be staring right back at her with the same intensity. The moment did not go unnoticed by Shaw, who became miffed that two of the most exquisite women he knew were paying no attention to him.

"Alas, the dancing has not yet begun," he said, taking Rogue's hand and urging her out of her seat. "How about a brandy in the library."

"I will not be joining you," Selene said, smiling at Rogue. She pulled Shaw aside and whispered something in his ear. Then, "Enjoy yourselves, Maxine, Sebastian. I guarantee the night will end with much excitement." She blew a kiss and walked away.

"Vhat an interesting voman," Rogue said. Selene was a mutant. She was sure of it, just not what kind, because she sure wasn't a normal one.

Shaw wrapped an arm around her waist, "The library, fräulein?" He plucked a flute of champagne off Kitty's tray as she walked by. Kitty shot Rogue a be-careful-with-that-creep glance before moving away.

Rogue forced a giggle, accepting the glass Shaw handed her, "Vhy of course. I adore books." She followed Shaw out of the ballroom, absent mindedly taking a sip of the champagne.

As they walked through a dark corridor, she began to realize something was wrong. A dizziness overcame her, fighting to knock her to the ground. She faltered in her step and grabbed the wall to steady herself.

Shaw turned, "What could be the matter, _Fräulein Maxine_?"

Rogue looked at the champagne glass and realized it was drugged. As her fingers lost their feeling, it fell to the floor and shattered. Her eyes fluttered shut and she crumpled unconscious into Shaw's arms.

"Did you think we wouldn't notice?" he said with an arrogant laugh. "You can't fool Selene. No one can." He pressed his comm link, "Security. We have a mutant breach. Handle it—!" His mouth slammed shut as Rogue's fist struck his jaw. Dazed, he stumbled back, only to be dealt another blow to the face.

"And did you think Ah'm a lightweight?" Rogue said, reeling back for another punch.

This time Shaw caught her fist with a grin, "You're not the only one with special powers, _Fräulein." _She felt her arm weaken and weaken until she was knocked back by a burst of force. "I'll absorb all the energy you throw at me. You cannot win."

Rogue slammed into the wall but caught herself before she fell. Great, he was a mutant afterall, and an annoying one to boot. He was ruining her dress. What could he possibly not absorb? She tapped into the Bobby in her. Ice flew from her fingertips, covering Shaw's feet and crawling up his legs. He howled and tried to break free, to no avail. But the drug he had spiked her with was stronger than she thought. She couldn't find it off completely even with Wolverine's healing ability. The ice faltered and her vision clouded.

Then, like the whisperings of a nightmare, she heard a woman's silken voice in her mind, _Rogue... don't fight it. Give in to the peace. Rest..._ She was going crazy. Her head was a haze of debilitating chemicals and an even more debilitating other presence. Who was it? What did it want?

Shaw broke free of the ice and grabbed her by the hair. Her muddled mind shot electricity from her hands. He laughed uproariously as he absorbed the power. "Foolish girl!" he howled, and with a burst of light, blew her through the window. She tumbled roughly over the stone terrace outside with a rain of shattered glass and bits of broken stone.

Shrieks of surprise errupted from the ballroom, where all guests had perfect vision of the commotion outside. The music came to an abrupt stop. Everyone stared.

_Rogue?_ The Professor, reaching for her, but too far away. Something was blocking him. That other voice.

She rolled onto her side. Everything hurt. The drugs were beginning to wear off finally, but the voice was still there. _Rogue_, it cooed. _I'll show you. Soon, so very soon._

"Get out, get out, get out!" She was losing it. The energy in her body, the psyches, reverting back to uncontrollable personalities. It wasn't supposed to be so hard. She couldn't lose control like this again.

_Don't fight it...embrace your glory, Rogue._

Her body was on fire. She couldn't contain it. Cherry bombs tumbled uncontrolled from her hands, exploding haphazardly all around. A searing optic blast shot from her eyes. The floor began to shake and undulate erratically in mini quakes. The celing-to-floor glass wall of the ballroom shattered, the brick of the rooftop structure began crumbling, holes forming in their foundation. Tables and chairs in the dining hall began to glow with cackling blue energy, rattling and shaking as if possessed by witchcraft. She could hear screams of panic and fear from inside through the storm in her head.

Guests screamed and ran for the exits. Word spread:

"A mutant attack!"

"Another mutant attack!"

"How dare they, at this sort of event!"

Creed's security forces marched into the hall, automatic firearms ready.

Shaw leapt onto her, pinning her arms to her sides and absorbing the power spilling from her body. His gleeful laughter filled her mind with more cacophony.

_Rogue!_ The Professor had finally broken free. _Concentrate on me, Rogue._

_I am here for you._ _Don't let go. Control your powers._

She tried to remember how.

_Rogue,_ the intruding voice purred. _You have to know what to see. Rogue..._

Out of sheer anger she summoned the will. Push it down. Push it all down just like the Professor, Jean, Emma, and Braddock had taught her. So many telepaths, so much energy, all to control the volcano that was her body. Concentrate. With the help of the Professor, the fire within her subsided, the woman's voice disappeared. The powers bursting from her abruptly stopped.

"Bub, that ain't how you treat a lady."

Shaw flew off her as Logan barreled into him. They toppled over the terrace, each trying to gain the upper hand. With another burst of absorbed energy, Shaw threw Logan all the way to the opposite wall of the dining hall. Screams erupted from the guests who were still trying to run away.

"Give it your best shot," Shaw guffawed, and followed in pursuit. As Wolverine and Shaw engaged in a brutal fight, Creed's security forces closed in around Rogue. Screams of the party guests desperately trying to escape filled the air.

"Get away from her!" Balls of ice flew into the men, freezing over their weapons and feet, locking them into place where they stood. With another barrage, he knocked them unconscious one-by-one with snowballs to the face. Iceman had apparently not gotten rusty in his reclusion, focused as any X-Man would be. Then he saw the green-haired girl coming toward Kitty. It couldn't be...

Kitty had run to Rogue's side, "Oh my God, are you okay?"

Rogue rubbed her temple and sat up painfully, "Not really."

"Let's get out of h—" Kitty shrieked as the broken metal frame of a window flew into her and pinned her to the floor. Shards of glass still attached dug into her skin.

"You were not invited," Lorna Danes sneered. With a wave of her hand, forks and knives from the dinner tables inside flew into the air, right at Kitty.

"Lorna, stop!" Bobby yelled. Rays of ice blew from his hands, deflecting the cultery aimed to fallay his friend.

Lorna turned at the voice and paused as recognition flashed through her eyes. "Wh-what—Bobby?"

Kitty phased herself through the bar and pushed herself into the air, phasing back to physical form as she tackled Lorna to the ground.

Rogue saw it too late, and she could hardly believe it. A card, sparkling with kinetic charge. Aimed at Kitty and Bobby. They were knocked aside with the blast, stunned and unconscious.

With a groan, Lorna stood and brushed herself off. "You almost hit me!" she barked.

Through the dust Rogue saw him, standing there in a black uniform, same trenchcoat, staring at her with red-on-ebony eyes that smouldered in that way she knew all too well. Her body tightened as a wave of both elation and dread filled her at the same time. In no way of the physical laws of the universe did this make sense. She wanted to think it was another hallucination, just like the terrorist Sayyid's little gem of an experience, but she knew it wasn't. She thought of only one thing to do for the moment.

With a puff of sulfurous smoke, she disappeared, reappearing beside Kitty and Bobby, and porting away with him in another puff. She landed in the foyer of the ballroom, where Storm and the Professor were guiding the last of the guests to the nearest exit.

"Rogue – what's happened?" Ororo took hold of a still-unconscious Kitty. "Where's Logan?"

Rogue draped Bobby over the Professor's lap. "Ah'm goin' back for him."

"Rogue wait," the Professor called, "the intruder in your mind—"

"It was Selene," Rogue said. "Ah know it. Ah gotta go." She was gone the next second with a burst of black smoke.

"Selene," Ororo echoed. "Charles?"

"I don't know, Ororo, but I am deeply worried."

* * *

Sebastian Shaw hit the ground and didn't rise again. With an exhausted groan, he finally gave up to the cool oblivion of unconsciousness. The ballroom was completely torn apart, tables broken, china and glass shattered all over the floor.

Breathing hard from the exertion, Wolverine scanned the hall as his body began to heal itself. It didn't have much of a chance—he started feeling a force tingling around the adamantium of his skeleton. "What the..."

Malice entered the ballroom, hand raised toward him. "People rely too much on metal these days," she said, and spread her fingers apart.

The gesture pulled Logan's limbs astride, pinning him mid-air. She then threw him against the wall, back against the floor, and up again – tossing him about like a tennis ball.

Remy stood by her side, watching the ferocity with which the X-Man met pain. Dieu, he had endurance. He knew Logan was Rogue's closest mentor. He couldn't let this crazy green girl kill him. A charge sparked in his hands, and he reached for his cards.

With a burst of smoke Rogue appeared. Electricity shot from her hand, shocking Malice out of concentration. Logan fell back to the floor unconscious. Malice recovered quickly, sending a magnetic blast that threw Rogue off her feet.

Rogue groaned as she pulled herself back up. Her dress was beginning to look like a Tarzan outfit and her whole body hurt and she was exhausted and Remy was here and she was beginning to get officially _pissed_. Remy was actually here, after two years of absolute nothing, playing for the other team. It made no sense, confused her, awoke an old rage she thought she had outgrown since high school. Her concentration was off and she was getting distracted, distracted enough to be sloppy. As if to prove that point, Malice summoned every bit and scrap of metal in the ballroom soaring toward her. Rogue barely shifted her skin in time to the impenetrable diamonds of Emma Frost's. The shards bounced off of her like pebbles.

Malice's enraged scream echoed throughout the emptied hall. She attacked Rogue with all she had, throwing at her every bit of her magnetic powers. Rogue deflected, moving from one mutant's abilities to another in her offense and defense.

Remy watched in awe. He knew she had access to all the psyches she had ever absorbed, but he had never seen such an act of grace and beauty. At that moment he realized Rogue had unlimited power. Unlimited. And that put her in great danger. Someone had tried to kidnap her, years ago, and they had almost succeeded. Was this what they were after, the powers she could wield so devastatingly?

Malice's scream was knives in his ear, "Don't just _stand there!"_

While he was lost in thought, they had fought each other back outside. Rogue had Malice pinned down on the balustrade of the terrace with her own magnetism, reaching for her skin. "Let's see what you've got in that twisted head of yours..."

Remy was at her side in a moment, a hand pulling back her outstretched arm and an arm around her neck pinning her to his chest. "Chere, not a good idea—"

He didn't see her foot until it hit him in the face. Dieu, she was faster and more flexible now. He caught himself mid-fall, back-flipping onto his feet. She was on him immediately, all fight, no powers. They sparred back and forth seemingly to no end. The last thing Remy wanted was to hurt her, but he wasn't sure she felt the same way.

Surprisingly strong, she grabbed him without mercy and threw him up onto the roof of the hotel. He landed with a painful thud and groaned. This was starting to become more than he could take. He was just pulling himself up when Rogue landed on him, pinning him down with her legs. He kicked up and rolled them over until he was on top, "Stop – I don' want t'fight you!"

Her chest rose and fell in coarse, exhausted breaths as she stared up at him. "Why are you here?" she rasped. Her voice cracked at the end and she hated herself for it. Strong, she needed to look strong. The only problem was, with him so close to her, after _all this_ _time_, looking at her with no hate or even the merest frustration from their fight, she could feel the slow fracture of her resolve.

Remy's eyes never left her. He said nothing, had no idea what to say. He had gone over it many times in his mind and could not have predicted meeting like this. And then she asked the question that made him remember the shame of his present obligations.

"Where've you been?"

Her words stung his gut with guilt and frustration, anger toward Essex and Lorna Danes and his haywire mutation. He couldn't tell her that he was working for the shadiest of shady people, that he was back to being a lackey for a villain who was by far worse than Magneto.

"Chere—dere are t'ings... I can't..."

"Is this your idea of working?" Malice landed on the roof from the boost of a magnetic field. Without hestiation or careful aim, she threw a pulse at them.

Rogue moved quickly, grabbing onto Remy and moving them out of the way. "Ah'm not done talking to you," she said. Almost a threat. Her eyes clouded over white and the clouds above them began to boil. The wind picked up, swirling around Rogue and lifting her into the air. Bolts of lightening shot down from the heavens and tapped against the roof like a dance, trying to hit Malice as she blocked and dodged.

"I've had _enough_ of you, bitch," Malice spat. She reached into her gown and pulled out a metal ring. With a flick it unclapsed, then floated into the air by her magnetic lift. Remy recognized too late that it as one of the collars she had revealed in the library. Malice sent the collar sailing through the air.

It clasped around Rogue's throat. The embedded red light came to life with a bright, pulsing glow. The cloudy white in Rogue's eyes subsided, the skies became clear again. She began to fall.

Gambit didn't hesitate a second, reaching into his utility belt for the grapple hook. He threw it into the side of the building, clipped the other end to his belt, and leapt off the roof.

Nobody ever talked about how loud freefall was. Cold air roared through Rogue's ears as she began to plummet. She tore at the collar but it would not release. Desperately calling upon the psyches in her quickly panicking mind, she realized nothing was there. Nothing. Her powers were gone. The epiphany was strange and horrifying. What was she without her mutant abilities? What were any of them?

Steady, familiar arms wrapped around her waist. She twisted around and held him, held on for dear life. To go from a shock reunion, to fighting, to now risking his life to save hers—her mind was a muddled mess of mixed feelings. She couldn't decide what to believe. Remy was good—he was bad—Remy injured Kitty and Bobby—Remy was saving her right now—There was an explanation for all of this—Remy still loved her—

The end of the grappling cord lost all slack, swinging them toward the brick side of the Plaza hotel. Remy deftly charged a card and threw it, blowing a hole in the wall so they tumbled right through and rolled into a messy heap inside a conference room. They lay still, Remy clutching her against him as if they were still falling.

She had hit her head. She could feel the throb of a wound on her right temple, the warm crawl of blood oozing across her skin. She wanted to stay awake, but the exhaustion, the warmth, the comfort of being held – she didn't want to fight it. Even when he called her name, she couldn't respond. Sleep. She just wanted to sleep in his arms again.

* * *

She awoke in the Med Bay. A blanket of exhaustion seemed to cover her. Getting up into a sitting position took so much energy she thought she couldn't do it. She looked around and could barely see what was past the edges of her room. Was there something wrong with her eyes?

"Hank?" she called. Silence. A chill crawled up her spine.

She heard footsteps. "Who's there," she demanded, on edge. She didn't feel safe. There was an eerieness to the air that she couldn't figure out.

"Chere, relax."

"Remy?"

He strode in casually with a plate of rice and gravy and a mineral water, "I cooked it myself. Aut'entic Cajun cuisine, chere." He set them on the eating tray beside her bed, as if it were the most normal day and he was doing the most normal thing. "How y'feelin'?"

"Ah'm... all right," she said warily. She drew a breath when he took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. So normal.

"Y'look tired. Maybe McCoy gave you too many o' t'ose drugs, hein?"

"Ah don't know... Remy—"

"Ssh, Rogue. Don't worry so much." He leaned in close, touching their foreheads together. "Y' safe here wit' me."

She felt so tired and it felt so good being so close to him. When he kissed her, she didn't resist. The warmth, the tenderness. She had wanted it for so long. But she had wanted answers too, possibly more than anything else.

She pulled away, "Remy, wait. What happened? How'd we get here?"

"Don' y'remember?"

"Not at all. Something's wrong." She tightened her grip on his hand, suddenly afraid he would disappear, "Don't go."

"Where would I go, chere?" he smiled.

"Ah don't know! Why are ya being so weird?"

"You have to know what to see, Rogue." The words came out of his mouth as if they were his own. She had heard them before, in her mind, in a different voice. Not so normal after all.

She stared at him, the suddenly grave expression, the dark smouldering eyes. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"What we all want, Rogue: more. Don't you see? You have to know what to see."

Selene's words. Who was Selene? _What _was she?

Rogue felt an acerbic panic rising like bile. She could feel the trembling in her hands, the cold sweat, her tense body. She was afraid and she wasn't sure what of. Remy began to disappear before her, along with the rest of the room. She felt cold and exhausted. Dull, throbbing pain. A sharp ache in her head. Where was the warmth? Where did it go?

When Rogue awoke, she realized she was lying on a table. A chill evening breeze blew through a large hole in the wall, the one Remy had blown up when they swung back into the hotel from freefall. She was covered up with a brown trench coat. Remy. Where had he gone? Did he just _leave_ her there? She touched the throbbing part of her head, felt a makeshift bandage wrapped around the gash. He had thought to take care of her in these small ways. Or maybe someone else had. She was not alone in the room.

"Your friends are searching for you."

An broad-shouldered man sat in one of the chairs around the table. He was bald, a dark mustache with sharp long ends framing his mouth. He looked old but well-preserved with an age that was hardly discernable. Like Selene, Rogue thought. Except there was something frail about him, as if he were on the verge of death. She slid off the table, putting on Remy's trench coat and tying it tight. Where had he gone? Then she realized that goddamn collar was stll around her neck. She was powerless and vulnerable, even though she was irritated and mad enough not to feel like it.

To the mysterious stranger, "Who the hell are you?"

"I mean you no harm, Rogue," he said. His voice sounded weaker the second time, as if it was an effort to speak.

"Then what the hell do ya want?"

"To warn you...of the Cataclysm..." The man began to wheeze. He struggled to breathe, a hand reaching for his heart. His frail body trembled visibly. "I've been...following you..."

Oddly, Rogue felt concern for him. She approached cautiously, knowing all too well how powerless she was. She hoped he hadn't been lying when he said her friends were looking for her. "Uh, you ok?" she asked.

Suddenly the man lunged out of his chair. He threw himself at Rogue, clutching her desperately by the arms. He seemed to weigh absolutely nothing. She could see the depth of his piercing blue eyes. A wisdom lay in him; she almost felt that she could see eons in those windows into his soul.

"Do not allow her," he rasped urgently. "Thousands will perish...she has ...already eradicated us all..." He shoved something into her hand, "Only you, Rogue... only you can stop it... the Cataclysm... she will try to turn you... Do not allow her..."

"But—but what does any of this _mean?_" she asked. "Who are you?"

"Garbha-hsien...last of the Ex—"

The door to the room suddenly blew open with a loud gust. Storm and Wolverine stood in the doorway. "Rogue—!"

And right before their eyes, the man called Garbha-Hsien began to dissolve. His body and all its features, the elements that composed his form, as if no longer able to hold themselves together, seemed to dehydrate with inhuman rapidity. The bonds holding him together fell apart, bereft of the energy that once united his atoms. In mere seconds he crumbled into infinitesimal grains of dust. Rogue stared at where Garbha-Hsien had stood, stunned to stillness.

"Well," Wolverine said, "that's one way to make an exit."


	9. Massacre

**Ah nice, a new reviewer: **Hello SassC HiJinx!Thank you for the kind words about my writing. A writer loves praise for the way the craft is handled.

Ish, here is an early New Year's gift for you.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Massacre**

Two years ago, they had investigated the same area. Jean remembered.

"Thiz place gives me ze creeps!"

"Kurt, relax. Looks like nothing's here. So...this was a waste of time." Scott scanned the barren warehouse and scratched his head. There were only old metal crates full of outdated electronic parts, covered in the dust of unuse. Random bits of wiring and piping had fallen about. "It's like nobody's been here in years. Jean, what do you think?"

She remembered a lot of things, and she remembered them well. Being a telepath gave one a sharpness of mind, heightened retention and intuition. For her, the memory of that time two years ago was clear, as if no time at all had passed. She had gone to investigate with Logan, to the warehouse where Farat's men were to take the kidnapped X-Men. _Taking unconscious mutants...why would anyone want to kidnap mutants. Hmmph._

"Jean?"

She remembered a ghostly she-demon, sucking the life out of her friends. She remembered the maddening fear of being prey. She also remembered the tagedy of it all. A predator who was just a confused and repressed girl who had never had a life. Because it had been stolen from her. And the same people – or at least somebody behind them – was trying to steal the X-Men. She remembered it all, saw it all. Vividly. _Kidnapping mutants for what? One hideout there, another one here...Cerebro led me here._

"Jean!"

"Pardon?" She blinked and turned to face the frown creases on Scott's forehead. He and Kurt were staring at her. "I was just lost in thought, sorry."

"Are you ok?" Scott was worried, she sensed it.

"I'm fine, really. It's just..." Heightened intuition. Residue. There was residue here. "...we're missing something."

Cries. There had been cries. How could they not have found anything two years ago? It felt so obvious now.

"Jean, what is it?"

Things left over, in the air. Leftover energies of once-potent feelings. She couldn't explain this in words, these feelings that grew stronger the more she forced herself to be aware of them. How could she not have sensed it before, when she had been so close?

Kurt glanced warily at Scott, "Uh, iz she okay?"

"I think it's something with her powers," he said. "But she doesn't look like she's in trouble Just really concentrating hard."

Dear, Scott. Knows her so well, knows even her powers, even though her powers were doing something she hadn't quite gotten the hang of yet. Xavier had said much of telepathy was still a mystery, as was the human brain itself, and if the brain of a regular homo sapien was so shrouded in enigma, one could only imagine what was hidden in the advanced neurons and synapses of a telepathic telekinetic homo surperior like her. It was rare even to have both abilities, and more difficult to understand them. But she was getting close. She knew it.

Eyes closed to concentrate, she held one hand firmly out before her, as if it were leading her somewhere. She didn't know, but she followed anyway, followed the remnants of screams that had once echoed in this very place. They had been alone, lost, taken. There had to have been incredible trauma to leave such psychic remnants...tiny pieces of barely perceptible energies... like the chipped off pieces of dead spirits on holy ground... She began to feel afraid.

"Scott?"

"I'm here, Jean. Kurt, too. We're right behind you." She felt his hand on her shoulder.

She followed them: Remnants of screams. Loud screams of pain, and worse, the silent ones, where the horror was so great and suffocating, no sound could pass the lips.

Thin wisps of something terrible that had happened.

Jean followed the trail to an electric panel against the north-facing wall of the warehouse. Instead of flipping the front open, she reached behind it to a switch hidden between it and the wall.

A door in a random spot of the floor slid open.

"Vhoa," Kurt said, and teleported over to inspect.

Horror, the horror. Jean shivered but did not hesitate. She levitated herself from the floor and floated down into the chamber. With Scott and Kurt following behind, she led them through a narrow, low-ceilinged passageway for about 10 meters until she came an iron-cast door bolted shut. "Scott?"

"On it." With a small optic blast, he blew the lock off and pulled the heavy door open. Pitch black. They felt around for the light switch. "Here," Scott said. With a _flick_, faint blue lamps glowed to life and illuminated the lab.

Jean gasped, one hand going up to cover her mouth, "Oh my God."

"I'm going to be sick," Kurt said.

Scott shook his head, "This is...it's _inhumane."_

Between the work tables full of various metal instruments for measurement, laceration, and inspection, some delicate-looking for precision, others chunkier for no other purpose than bodily invasion—sat examination tables and cylinders and tanks full of putrid-green liquid, lining the entire lab in neat little rows. With the sickenly green liquids floated masses of organic matter within which one could see a hand here and there, an eye, a thigh, feet, forearms, skin. Claws. Fangs. Organic armor. Upon the examination tables, humanoid shapes could be made out in the dim blue light, but they looked far from anything that resembled human—features contorted, anatomical distortions that made it seem impossible to stand.

"Vhat iz all this?" Kurt exclaimed. He looked distressed and tense, three-pronged fists clenched tight. "Vhat did they do?"

"You know what they did, Kurt." Jean approached one of the tables, where a smaller specimen lay. It couldn't have been a full grown adult. Once upon a time, it had been a child, now nothing more than a misshapen mass of cells. "The Professor said experiments on mutants aren't anything new. Logan's adamantium skeleton is the result of such a thing. I just never thought someone was doing it here, so close to us. And we had no idea..."

Scott had made his way to the other side of the lab, where a computer console reposed. "It's still working," he said, surprised. After pushing a few keys, "Damn it. All the files are encrypted. Can't make sense of any of it." He looked at the cabinet next to the computer, where a few lab coats hung. "Who did this? Do you think Magneto...?"

"Magneto's crazy," Kurt said, "but he vould never do this to his own kind."

Screams. There had been so many screams here. The semblances of suffering in the lab hung on Jean like a thin layer of soot. She felt tainted and disturbed. "Let's get out of here," she said suddenly.

"We should at least try to get what's on this computer," Scott insisted. He rummaged around the desk drawers until he located an old pack of blank CDs. He inserted one into the computer and began copying folders off the harddrive. "Just a couple minutes and—Oh, no."

"Vhat?"

Scott began desperately pressing the keyboard as a computer voice casually announced, _"10 seconds till self destruct."_

"Scott!" Jean screamed. "We don't have time for that!"

"Wait—it's almost—"

_"5 seconds till self destruct."_

"No mein freund." Kurt teleported next to him and grabbed his arm, "Ve're leaving now."

"Wait just let me—" Scott snatched the disc from the CD drive right before Kurt teleported them both to Jean's position.

"Hold on!"

Jean grabbed onto Kurt and the three disappeared from the lab with a burst of smoke, just as it exploded.

* * *

One could get used to certain kinds of pain, especially those of necessity, the toils of commitment, purpose, and mission. Your body became inured to it, could almost be excited by it. Only pain made things real. The pain felt during the peak of hardship and struggle, pain that struck you in your core and burned its memory into the atoms of your very bones – that pain indicated you were still alive and had a fighting chance.

And then there were other types of pain.

Rogue wasn't sure which kind she was trying to fight off at the moment. Her whole body hurt in places she hadn't even known had nerve endings. Even in all her time at X-Corps she'd never been beaten up so bad.

Wait, no, total lie. Now _you're feeling sorry for yourself? _she thought irritably.

There had been those bomb makers in Munich with a chip on their Neo-Nazi shoulders— that had landed her in Sean Cassidy's clinic for a couple day's observation. And then of course there had also been the unfortunate encounter with a bone-crusher mutant in Maputo—she didn't think she'd get out of that in one piece. Yet somehow none of that seemed as laborious now. None of it compared to the twinges and aches she felt as they returned to the Institute, the frustrations from a the night's events. She just didn't understand.

She burst into the war room, still in her torn up evening dress, still wrapped in the trench coat that wasn't hers, and tossed onto the table the worthless stone talisman that disintegrated weirdo Garbha-hsien handed her before he died. She didn't understand _anything_ and she was sick of feeling confused. She was also sick of aching and bleeding from wounds that had been more serious a while ago but were not healing at the pace she desired.

"You okay, Stripes?" Logan strolled in after her, clothes torn but lookin otherwise no more worse for wear.

"Ah'm annoyed is what Ah am—why can't Ah heal as fast as you? Ah have the same power... Mostly."

Logan smirked, "Don't you know? Knock-offs ain't ever as good as the original." He reached into one of the shelves by the computers and pulled out a beer from his hidden stash. "What's with your hair?"

Rogue glanced at the long messy blond locks flowing past her shoulders and sighed, "Oh, right." Slowly they began to morph back to her natural white-striped auburn.

Logan offered her a beer but she shook her head. "Suit yourself." He popped the top off with one adamantium claw, sat back in a chair, and turned on the war room's multiple TV screens. Despite his apathetic tone, his eyes glowered darkly at the screens, "Let's see what PR disaster has unfolded for us tonight."

The incident at the Plaza Hotel dominated all the network news channels. Some of the most high-profile guests were still at the scene, giving sound bytes that could become the incendiary battle cries of anti-mutant hate.

_"It was a mutant attack, no question of it!" _Congressman William Poage railed.

_"This was a fundraiser for _peace_, and look what's happened!" _ Senator Claiborne Pell lamented. _"This only makes the world seem less safe, which means certain actions will probably need to be taken."_

_"What sort of actions?" _the reporter, Trish Tilby, prompted.

_ "All I can say right now is, tonight's events will definitely impact the vote on the Mutant Registration Act in a couple days. We don't deny that not all mutants are bad – but what about the ones who would use their powers to the detriment of others? How can we risk the lives of our children, how can we risk our future?"_

Some of the guests had filmed the tumult with camera phones. Their amateur videography skills didn't capture everything, but in a few seconds here and there, viewers could catch a flash of the Wolverine and his claws. In another contribution of citizen journalism, Rogue was clearly visible in her torn green dress, fire and electricity spilling from her body.

Rogue slammed her fist on the table and cursed loudly, "Mother$#& *^!"

"They didn't mention Shaw at all," Logan noticed. "How'd he get out of this unscathed?"

"They have a psychic," Rogue said through gritted teeth, picturing the unfathomable Selene and her icy blue eyes. "Probably washed everyone's memory so he stay in the mutant closet. Goddamn it all. We're screwed."

"Calm down, Stripes. Ain't the first time we had to clear up our public image. Xavier's well-respected now. He'll be able to take care of it."

Bobby and Kitty wobbled in, Kitty looking slightly dizzy and Bobby with gauze around a wound on his arm. He marched over to Rogue and straightened up to his full height so he stood barely a few centimers taller than her. "Did you and Gambit have a nice dance?" he fumed.

Rogue did not flinch. Her eyes hardened, "Excuse me?"

"Obviously you two had time to _catch up_ after he attacked me and Kitty—you know, your _friends?_ What did he do to Lorna?"

"You're out of your mind, Bobby."

"Am I?! Your ex could've _killed_ us!"

Kitty looked alarmedly between the two of them, "Bobby, stop it. Logan, make them stop!"

Their old mentor shrugged and took a swig of beer, eyes still on the TV screens, "Better to have everything up front."

"What?" Kitty cried.

"You better get out of my face, Iceman," Rogue said, leaning forward so they were practically breathing on each other's faces. Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"This is pathetic. Just because your old loser boyfriend shows up, you let everything go and let him blow up your friends and take advantage of helpless girls! The mission wouldn't've been such a disaster if you'd controlled your freak powers—"

Logan was out of his chair and pinning Bobby to the wall before anyone else could react. "You're out of line, bub. We _never_ call each other that. You're an X-Man, and right now, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"But she totally lost it! And Lorna's being—"

"Lorna ain't bein' forced to do anything, kid," Logan snapped. He let Bobby go and returned to his seat. "In case you didn't notice, _she_ was the one calling the shots back there. Now, get _yourself_ together before you do something you really regret."

Bobby growled in frustration, shooting Rogue a condemning look before storming out. He nearly bumped into Ororo and the Professor as they were coming in.

"Bobby, where are you going?" the Professor called after him.

"Somewhere else," he growled and disappeared around the corner.

Rogue blew a white strand of hair out of her eyes and crossed her arms, glowering at the floor. Part of her wanted to knock Bobby's jaw right off his face. Another part had listened to his words, felt their sting in the most insecure part of her that she tried to bury deep. Was it the bitter truth no one else had the audacity to voice? Did they think she was out of control? It was the second time her powers had gone haywire, though they didn't know about the incident in Iraq. Was she really so delicate now? How could it be, when she had felt so _strong?_ Though at the moment, she was vulnerable. The cold metal of the power negating collar rubbed against her throat.

"What is bothering Bobby?" Ororo asked, concern wrinkling her brow.

Logan shook his head, "Let him blow off some steam. We've got bigger problems right now." He tipped his beer bottle at Rogue, "We've seen those before."

The Professor was already at the computer, fingers flying over the controls. "Yes, with my dear old friend, the Count."

Ororo's eyes widened, "Of course, how could I have forgotten? They locked us up in the dungeon with these collars. But the design has changed. The Count didn't manufacture them himself. Where could he have acquired them?"

"Odd...there's nothing explicitly about mutant power negating collars in any databases," the Professor said, "but there is a scientist who's been working on trying to inhibit the mutant x-gene. Bolivar Trask."

Logan sat up straight, "What. Trask is behind all this?"

"We can't be sure yet. We need more information. Ever since his release from jail—"

"To resurrect that damn sentinel program," Logan grumbled.

"—it seems he's proven to be skilled in more than mechanical engineering. I've found a press release saying he's received a government grant to pursue his research. His lab is at the University of Chicago."

"This is great intel and all," Rogue interjected, "but can somebody get this thing off of me?" She tapped the metal ring around her neck.

"Hmm..." Logan approached with one adamantium claw extended, then paused to reconsider. "We shouldn't damage it, 'case we want to study it. Half-pint, you're up."

Kitty blinked as if just tuning in. She rubbed her sore head, "Huh? Ohhh." With a simple touch, she phased the collar off Rogue's throat and set it on the table next to Garbha-hsien's talisman.

Rogue rubbed her neck. She opened her palm and called up a simple power to make sure her abilities had returned. A tiny fireball grew in her palm, flickering like a candle in the wind. She closed her hand and extinguished it, feeling whole again. The relief was startling. She had never thought much about how much a mutant's abilities could mean to her core identity. She couldn't believe she used to wish so badly to be 'normal'. What was a mutant without her powers? Stripped, bland. Food without salt. Incomplete.

"I will go to the Chicago," the Professor said. "I have some former colleagues at the university that may prove helpful in getting information from Trask. This may be connected to Garbha-hsien as well."

"So...let me get this straight," Kitty said. "This super old guy looks like he's attacking Rogue, but really he just gave her a cryptic message before he literally exploded into dust? What's that piece of rock mean anyway?"

Rogue stared at the two objects on the table, one stone, one metal, seemingly such opposites, unrelated to each other, but she knew there was a connection. There had to be. _Thousands will perish. She has eradicated us all. The Cataclysm._ "That rock has to be a clue to lead us somewhere," she said. "Ah think Garbha-hsien is connected to Sebastian Shaw somehow. Ah think that woman Selene that Ah met, she's some kind of mutant, but not like us. She was the one in my head messing everything up. She felt...different, but she's important in this, Ah can feel it. We should make going after her our top priority."

Logan looked at her dubiously, "Those are a lot of hunches, Stripes. We can't be making rash decisions right now."

"Ah'm telling you, it's _her_. She's buddybuddy with Shaw, who's obviously bankrolling Creed, whose Friends of Humanity are attacking mutants. Ah don't know why a mutant like Shaw would do that but...after tonight, the Mutant Registration Act probably got a boost of support—God, don't you see? Why else would all this be happening? It's _Selene_, she was in my head, setting me off into a mutant freak show like Bobby said—"

"Hey don't let him get to you," Logan cut in. "He wasn't thinking—"

"—so we have to find her and stop her. Ah have a feeling things are just gonna get worse."

"Listen, the way to do this is with more solid information—"

"Ah _know_ how to collect intelligence. Ah was an agent for—."

"This is _more complicated_ than an isolated infiltrate-and-execute operation—!"

"Like Ah don't _know_ what's on the line here? Selene is a real threat. Ah _felt_ it—!"

"You're getting way too emotional about this—!"

"Emotional?!"

"Maybe Bobby was right. Seeing Gambit after all this time—"

_"This has nothing to do with Gambit!"_ She hadn't intended to scream so loudly, but the effect was not lost on the others. They stared at her with such worried scrutiny that she was embarrassed above all else. She felt like an unstable teenager in high school, humiliated that the boy she liked had rejected her, and worst of all, that everyone knew it.

It was Ororo who moved first, placing a hand comforting hand on her shoulder, "We're not doubting your judgment, Rogue. We trust you, all of us." She shot Logan a sharp look.

He shook his head, but remained silent.

"All of you," the Professor said, "now is not the time for internecine strife. We have many leads to follow if we're to discern exactly what's happening here." As he spoke his fingers flew over the computer controls, accessing databases and files with the X-Men's powerful computer. "Something similar to 'Garbha-hsien' comes up in historical writings dating far back to 1100 AD in the Ho-Lo Shan Moutanins. Northern Mongolia."

"1100 AD?" Kitty let out an incredulous and borderline-delirious laugh. "How could you guys have seen him tonight if he was alive in 1100 AD? Wait—isn't that as old as Apocalypse?"

"Apocalypse was far older," the Professor said. "He was the first mutant, allegedly. Frankly, I have a terrible feeling that this Garbha-hsien's appearance tonight is not coincedence. That he sought out Rogue specifically is important. Logan, how are you feeling?"

"Peachy."

"Take the jet. You and Rogue will leave for Mongolia first thing in the morning. We need to figure out who Garbha-hsien was and what he wanted." He looked at the stone talisman on the table. "Take that with you. It may be a clue. Storm and I will go to Chicago to investigate the collars."

Rogue picked up the stone and turned it over in her hands. Indiscernible marks scratched the surface, but in no distinctive pattern. Dust in her hands, all that was left of the man. What he'd said... _Garbha-hsien...last of the Ex-... _Ex-what? Ex- as in former, or outsider? Dust in her hands, once Rogue's worst nightmare from her powers, draining people's life energy, all their energy, until they turned into ash in her hands... Could he have been attacked that way? Drained?

"Hey what about me?" Kitty peeped.

"Once Kurt, Jean, and Scott return—" the Professor suddenly gasped and gripped his head.

"Charles!" Ororo was at his side in a moment.

"No, it's all right. It was only Jean. She's just distressed. They're back. And they've found something sinister."

* * *

Gambit. She had no idea where he was, but he felt close. She couldn't help thinking about him while she showered at the end of that long night, despite all the other crazy in her life at the moment. The hot water prattled against her flesh, washing away the dry blood, the grime of the fight, drowning out the rest of the world, calming her mind—it pushed everything else out except him. Remy. The memory of their one night together still burned in her mind. She hadn't allowed any psychic blocks to touch it. She wanted to remember that sweetness, that heated pleasure. His hands on her.

She turned off the water but stayed in the shower. His body pushing against hers. Remy's eyes, his lips. She concentrated on the drops trickling off her body. The throb of want.

The hot steam from the water still lingered in the air, but she could feel it beginning to cool, the source of heat gone. It was strange sometimes, doing nothing else but feeling, focusing on the state of being alive. Seemed simple. Why wouldn't everyone just be alive. Live and let live. How did living become this complicated?

She got out of the shower and dried herself off with a towel. As she rummaged in the closet for clean clothes, she glanced at Remy's trench coat hanging on the door. Was he with Lorna Danes right now, plotting how to use those collars against mutants? Trading strategy with Sebastian Shaw? Maybe he was somehow connected to the mad scientist's laboratory full of abhorrent mutant experiments, too.

Why did Graydon Creed's phone call trace back to someone at a mutant experimentation lab anyway? The thought made her shudder. How as it all connectd?

Could Kitty decrypt the files on the disc Scott brought back?

How did it all come together?

Jean believed it was even connected all the way back to the attempted kidnapping of the X-Men two years ago, to Theodore Farrat and the Count, to Annabel. Poor Annabel, who had to drain mutants' energy and psyche to survive, whose fate could have been Rogue's had it not been for the random chance of biology and mutation. Random fates. Drained them like Garbha-hsien. Mongolia... last of the Ex-somethings. X-somethings?

Selene's maddening presence in her mind. Her cooing, _Rogue, I'll show you. Soon, so very soon._ Like a crazy woman with crazy plans. But a powerful mutant. _Don't fight it...embrace your glory, Rogue._ What had she been talking about? Why was she targeting Rogue?

God, who could know anything, living like this.

Living should not be like this.

Remy, what are you doing?

Despite it all, he had saved her. He had leapt off a building to make sure she lived. She couldn't help believing there was an explanation for everything, and however he was involved, she needed to help him. She had to believe it, because the alternative was something she could not reconcile.

Rogue couldn't know that Remy LeBeau was just an hour away, standing in a dark alley in Manhattan, arms crossed, leaning against a damp building. A light drizzle created a pale mist in the air, reflecting the city lights and making the night seem less dark than it really was. He was almost invisible in his black uniform, hair slicked back in the rain. Only his eyes gave him away, glowing red in the shadows. He was watching Lorna Danes talk on her phone.

She was out of her dress, back in a dark uniform, her green hair loose and flowing down her back in messy damp locks. "It's time," she said and gestured for Remy to join her where she stood. As she levitated a manhole cover off the tunnel it secured, she smiled at Remy, "Finally the reason you came to New York, Mr. LeBeau. Let's put you to good use."

It was then Remy realized he'd been here before, in this exact spot. Two years ago, escaping from Farrat's men in the Morlock lair. "What do you mean, put me t'good use?" he asked.

"Aw shucks, Remy. I know you're smarter than this."

From the shadows emerged six motley figures, two women and four men.

"Gambit, meet Vertigo, Scalphunter, Riptide, Harpoon, Arclight, and Blockbuster, your newest teammates," Lorna said with a smug smile. "Try not to piss them off. They're a little fight-happy." She giggled childishly, then just as quickly, all mirth left her face. An uncanny coldness came out of her mouth as she gave instructions, "Leave nothing behind tonight. You have your instruments. Gambit here has been all over these tunnels, haven't you? Lead the way, Cajun."

He stared at this group of ruffians, all bearing down on him with a self-satisfaction that made his skin crawl. They clearly had been briefed about the mission. A cold chill crawled up his spine, like a spiked insect digging its claws into his flesh.

"No," he said. "Not till you tell me what's goin' on here."

"Don't have an attack of conscience now, Gambit. I've forgiven you for going off to save that X-bitch, but my patience runs out very. Quickly."

"M'not doin' dis den."

Lorna turned on him with green fire in her eyes, though her expression remained cold and calculating. "I'm getting _tired_ of reminding you over and over again why you're following _my _orders," she said. She glanced over at the mutant who looked like an ex-soldier, muscular, crew cut hair, and large with a few scars on his arms and neck. "You know, Scalphunter over there's always had a thing for Southern belles..."

"Don't you dare—"

"_What_, Remy?" Lorna snarled. "I give the orders here. Do we understand each other? Good. Now take us to the Morlocks."

Mon dieu, he knew there was no point in arguing, knew he had signed this deal in blood since day one. But this was the last one, Essex had said. Means to an end. He had to remember that. And then he would get the serum that would keep his powers in check for good. God only knew how much he needed that serum. The last explosion of his kinetic energy had killed...ruined lives. He couldn't risk it again. If he understood Essex at all, this was a mission to collect mutant DNA. He would be kidding himself if he thought no Morlock wouldn't get a little injured tonight, but maybe that'd be it. Maybe the samples could be collected and these goons would move on.

As he climbed down the manhole and entered the sewers, he forced himself not to wonder why a DNA-collecting mission required a band of trained killers.

* * *

The child's powers were acting up again, and it was a painful process, like teething. She twisted and squirmed, trying to scratch it all away, but her caretakers held her hands back. Stronger-than-human bones protruded from her flesh, first around her face, then her shoulders and arms. After a few minutes they would retract, then repeat the process. She was only 11 years old, a little young to exhibit her mutation, but her parents hadn't felt any sympathy. After trying to cope with a mutated child, their shame overcame their love. They had picked her out of bed while she was asleep, driven to the nearest police station, and left her there. The police hadn't known what to do with a deformed kid either and left her unattended long enough for her to run out onto the streets herself, looking for her parents. She was too young to know the way home, and no one would listen to the pleas of a girl begging "Please...please take me to Staten Island" with disgusting bones coming out of her skin. She looked like a miniature monster in their eyes.

Luckily Callisto found her. Two weeks ago. Since then, she has been a Morlock, and having felt the rejection of her parents, she made a home for herself quickly. But her mutation was harder for her to cope with, the sporadic pain that flared up every once in a while and tapped into her childish fears. It made her wish to be normal.

"I wanna go home!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "I don't want to be a mutie! Make it stop! Make it stop!"

"Sarah, calm down! It'll pass, child, it'll pass!"

Spyke could empathize. As he watched Callisto and Cybelle try to soothe the kid, he thought back to his days at the Xavier Institute, how it had helped him become stronger and more capable. Plus, she had a similar mutation to his. Maybe the Professor could help her too. He toyed with the idea of sending Sarah to Xavier, but he knew Callisto would reject that out of pride. For Callisto, the Morlocks were family. And family never abandoned each other, even though Spyke left his to fight for the underdogs. His real name was Evan Daniels, and he used to be an X-Man. He hardly ever spoke to them these days, except for Auntie Ororo. Everyone had moved on with their lives, and he didn't blame them. They were fighting the growing anti-mutant sentiment as well, while he was busy trying to protect less powerful mutants from attacks topside.

People've gotten so much more hateful, he thought. Poor Sarah will probably have to deal with worse once she gets older.

_ "Callisto! Spyke!"_ Caliban came running out of the west-facing tunnels breathless and shaking. "We're being attacked!"

Evan tensed immediately, "Who?" He had never seen Caliban speak so quickly in his life.

"Th-they came out of nowhere – t-took out our sentries. We had no idea – killing, _just killing!_—no questions, no words! —don't know what they want—!"

It was at that moment that the screams were close enough to hear, along with the sounds of falling bodies, breaking bones, and ripping flesh. Some discernible words, _"Mutants of filth—"_

Sarah began screaming out of fear than pain, "What's happenng? What's happening?" She clung to Cybelle, crying and crying.

Callisto grabbed one of the automatic rifles she had hidden around the tunnels. "Evan, we have to—eeuuggh!"

Without warning a mind-rattling whirlwind blew into their chamber, knocking everything and everyone off their feet and throwing them into the walls. The mini-tornado spun to a stop, revealing a male mutant with shuriken-shaped protrusions on his skin. "Ready to play with Riptide?" he grinned. With a wave of his arm, he sent three of them flying in Evan's direction.

Evan dove out of the way just in time. Without missing a beat he threw long bone spears back at Riptide, one of them lodging in his leg. Riptide howled in pain, pulled the bone spear out of his leg, and moved at Evan with the ferocious momentum of one who hadn't been injured.

All hell broke loose.

As Evan fought Riptide, taking more hits than he was giving, he saw everything out of the corner of his eyes. More foreign mutants spilling into the chamber, attacking any and every Morlock they could reach. They spared no brutality, slashing, biting, and shooting their way in, aiming to kill.

Blood and screams. It was a Tarantino horror film. All blood and screams.

Why? Why was this happening? How? Through the mayhem Evan made out two words of sanity, a man shouting, "Stop dis! Stop! _STOP!_" But the madness ignored him and kept killing.

After each Morlock body fell, one of the attackers would kneel beside it, stick a large needle into the spine, withdraw a sample, and tuck it safely into a case. Evan saw this before Riptide struck him mercilessly on the head. He fell to the ground, bloodied and motionless, visibly dead. Riptide had underestimated the strength of his skull.

The next moment, Evan felt the excruciating jab of a needle in his back but was too defeated to cry out in pain. Instead he lay there, feeling his sense of reality leaving. _Help_, he thought desperately, _help X-Men... help_... As his eyes drooped to shut, he saw it, a ray of hope. The girl, Sarah, crying quietly in a corner by herself, too small to be noticed by the attackers yet—someone picked her up. A man in a dark uniform-he couldn't make out his face-holding her gently against him as he dashed off through a tunnel to escape the nightmare.

And just before the darkness overtook him, he felt a presence in his mind. _Evan? Evan what's happened? There's so much pain, Evan! Tell me what's wrong..._ "Profehhh...ssrrr," he grumbled, before everything faded to silence.

* * *

**I realize that there's **lots of info and lots of things to keep track of. This is definitely a more complicated story than DimV, but I hope you're all enjoying it.

And of course, every writer loves reviews! Specifically, I really like constructive criticism. It's been a while, so the details can get muddled up in my head. If there are any inconsistencies in character or plot you'd like to raise, feel free. I value feedback.


	10. So Spake the Grisly Terror

**So I was going to post two chapters at once because this one was so low on the Rogue/Remyness, but then the second one I was going to post developed more and became too long so I thought what the heck, here you go.**

* * *

It was late when the X-jet landed on the Manhattan street, exactly there the Professor had said the distress originated from. The street was empty, as if everyone somehow knew to avoid being out on a night of such infamy. The jet's ramp opened with a _whoosh_ of hydraulics. Cyclops was out first, leading the squad of mutants. They planned on entering the sewers via the subway station, the quickest way to get them all in. As they neared the stairs leading below, a pained groaning caught Cyclops's attention. His visor snapped in the direction of the noise, "It's Evan—he's hurt!"

Remy closed his eyes, jaw tight. He moved back, deeper into the shadows. They would find the Morlocks and Spyke would tell them what he saw. _S'all I deserve. Can't ever go back now._ He turned to leave but stopped at the sound of a voice, an alto resonance he had encountered for the first time in years just a few hours ago. What had he done? How could she ever forgive him? How could any man make all this wrong right again.

"What happened to him?"

He gripped the railing of fire escape on which he perched. The horror in Rogue's voice was almost enough to make him reveal himself. He could do it, run to them and explain everything, make them understand, tell them why. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his feet planted, his voice mute. He should just walk away, let them deal with the situation. After all, this was the X-Men's forte. They were professionals at coping with such problems. And because of that, he knew they would never forgive him. He had gone against everything they believed, scarified the weak to the strong for his own needs. He was the scum they probably already thought he was. He had to leave—as soon as he could make himself stop staring at her.

Shadowcat found Sarah, lying unconscious against a building where Remy had left her for them. "Oh, girl, look at you," she breathed. "Poor thing." She lifted the girl up and carried her back to the others. "She doesn't look too injured," she reported. "Barely a scratch on her. I think she's just knocked out."

"Take her back to the jet," Wolverine said, after looking over the girl quickly. As Shadowcat retreated he turned to Spyke.

Cradling his bloodied form, Storm gently prodded her nephew towards consciousness. "Come on, Evan," she said, voice thick with worry and trepidation. "You always said you were strong—prove it! Evan?"

He groaned, eyes opening into slits. "S-So many," he mumbled. "Couldn't...couldn't fight them all..."

"Sssh," Storm said, "save your strength for now." Her blue eyes shot a foreboding look in Wolverine's direction. "The Morlocks."

He nodded grimly. "Rogue, Jean, you two stand guard up here in case the attackers return. Cyclops, you and I are taking the others down to the Morlock Tunnels. Storm, take care of Spyke and girl's injuries as best you can. Come on Cyke, prepare yourselves for what you might see." With claws bared, he hurried down below.

Cyclops paused a beat, "What did he mean prepare ourselves?"

"He means this night is just about to get worse," Jean murmured. "Be careful, Scott."

Rogue watched the team head into the sewers. She closed her eyes, remembering a night long ago, another time of fear and danger. Running from attackers with guns. Despite the problems then, she had a single comfort. But not now. Now she only had doubt and suspicion. Along with an odd feeling that they were being watched.

"I wonder what happened," Jean said, breaking into her thoughts. The red-haired telepath stepped around where Evan previously lay, as if she didn't want to be tainted by the splotches of blood he had left on the pavement. She held both hands to her temples and closed her eyes in concentration. When she was finished probing, she shot Rogue a confused look. "Somebody else is here. I've picked up on Evan and Sarah but there's a third..." She frowned, massaging her head. "It's familiar but I can't seem to..."

Rogue looked around the surrounding area, green eyes biting through the shadows with Henry McCoy's heightened senses. "Is it someone we know?" she asked. She knew she had felt someone watching them.

"I'm not sure," Jean said. "The mental signature is so boggled...like it's been changed somehow. I _know_ I've felt this presence before..." She gasped. "He's very close. He's..."

Rogue scanned the windows and doorways of the buildings around them. The street consisted of mostly hole-in-the-wall shops and low-rent housing above them. Nobody seemed to be home anywhere. And then she saw it, a flash of red eyes, but so quick and fleeting that she couldn't be sure she hadn't imagined it. _Could it be... It couldn't. There's no way._

"I've lost it," Jean groaned in frustration. "Whoever it was is gone." Suddenly she grabbed her head with a moan of discomfort.

"You all right?" Rogue asked.

"I...I feel Scott. I feel his distress..."

At that moment, Magma blew herself out of a manhole. She landed on the ground, breathless, eyes wide with fear, "Th-there's no one left, uh, it w-was just—just—I've never seen—"

Rogue grabbed her firmly by the shoulders, "Calm down, sugah. What are you trying to say?"

"They're dead!" she cried. "Th-The Morlocks in the tunnels, j-just bodies. Oh, God so many bodies, torn up. I couldn't look at it anymore..."

Rogue wrapped an arm around her, "Go back to the jet. Ah have a feeling the others are going to be coming out soon." She turned to face the tunnel Amara came out of. The last time she'd been in such a place, she had been running for her life. In her memory, she could still trace the paths through the Morlock tunnels.

"Rogue," Jean called, "what are you doing?"

"Somebody's gotta collect the bodies," she said, and disappeared into the sewer.

* * *

**New York, Metropolitan Correctional Center - The same night**

"'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'"

Hank pressed the pencil to his mouth while he thought. After a few moments he started writing again, speaking the words as he jotted them down. It was a relaxing pastime of his, and it was great oratory practice.

"'He who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe.'"

The two men in the cell opposite him listened carefully. They had tried to avoid attracting his attention in the last week that they'd been his neighbors. The beast seemed gentle enough with his books, hanging upside down every so often to read, and reciting his favorite prose and poetry. But he was a mutant, and one could never truly know what they could do. They could be hiding any number of abilities. At the moment he seemed satisfactorily preoccupied reciting his favorite lines from _Paradise Lost._

The pudgier one of the two men spoke in low tones so the beast would not hear, "So the guard gave me the word."

"Yeah?" the other said. "What's it?"

"Somebody's roundin' up muties."

"What?"

"Keep it down!" the pudgy one hissed. "Goddamnit, man, can't tell you nothin'!"

"Ok ok, so who's doin' it and why?"

"Who gives a shit? I'm tellin' you, it's working. The Friends of Humanity are drivin' those freaks out of dodge."

"To where?"

"Some island by Africa, or somethin' I dunno the guard was sketchy 'bout that. He don't look so smart anyhow."

"So what, muties are just gonna leave the States?"

"Man, you stupid too? There're muties all over the world. And not all o'them are gonna fit on some lil' African island."

"So then what's the point?"

"Friends of Humanity'll take care of the rest. They've already got this guy, see, he's got this drink or whatever he's sellin' to people. Except it's bad for the freaks only. It makes 'em sick, and then it just gets worse."

"What do you mean worse?"

"I look like a scientist t'you? I'm just guessin' it real sick. Hell, maybe it even spreads!"

"Daaang that's crazy!"

"And we missin' all the action right now. But the Friends of Humanity'll get us out."

"Nah man they ain't gonna bother with us. We're just a bunch of grunts for them."

"Whatchu know? They got people in places. They'll take care of their own."

Little did they know, Henry McCoy was not only acrobatically spry, astronomically intelligent, and devastatingly strong, he also had heightened senses and parallel mind tracks. While he continued to recite lines and write them down, he was listening to the goons' entire conversation. "'Do they only stand by ignorance, is that their happy state, the proof of their obedience and their faith?'" he recited, pencil scribbling away.

"One way or another," the pudgy one was saying, "we're not gonna have to look at blue freaks like him anymore. Soon enough, they'll either run away to that island in the boonies or they'll just be gone."

"Gone?" the other one echoed. "What's that mean?"

"Chyeah—whatchu think that means?"

The clang and clack of the jailhouse door opening and closing echoed through the corridor. The police were bringing in another perpetrator. "About time you got a roommate, Beast," the officer said, and shoved a young man into his cell. "Play nice." He locked the cell and walked away, chuckling as though he'd made a clever joke.

Hank was more than a little surprised as he faced his new cellmate. The young man was no longer the tall lanky kid who had caused so much trouble for the X-Men in high school. He had grown into his frame, and after a while serving in X-Corps, had come out looking like a weathered and chiseled fighter. "Why, Lance Alvers. What has brought you to this scenic New York spot?"

* * *

Rogue watched the blood swirl down the drain with the water. She always thought it was ironic that blood, which was so necessary for life, meant danger and possible death if it was ever seen, that the color could spark such alarm and panic. And indescribable horror. There had been so many bodies. There had been so many bodies she couldn't even muster up the full force of her powers to make transporting them out of the sewers easier and faster. It felt almost disrespectful, almost like it was treating them as less than human. So she had laboriously helped Logan load every victim into transport. The Professor had phoned the DA John Abernale, who then called in a favor at the city morgue. Thankfully the coroner was far too interested in examining mutant bodies to refuse Abernale's request. He agreed to autopsy them and arrange burial.

Her hands were finally clean of the blood, though they didn't feel like it. As an agent of X-Corps hunting down crime lords and terrorists, she had seen many dead bodies, but nothing like this, never a scene of... of...

"Genocide," she murmured out loud.

Evan and the girl named Sarah weren't the only ones who had come out of the butchery alive. Logan had found Callisto, who was heavily injured but hiding in a hidden alcove of the tunnels with a band of other Morlock survivors. They had almost no information to give, except that their attackers were mutants, and they seemed to have been collecting blood from those they slayed.

"Collecting DNA," Rogue said to her reflection. "Why would they do that? Who are they working for?"

Callisto had declined the X-Men's offer to take her back to the institute. Instead she preferred medical supplies sent to them so she could stay with her people. She also insisted that Evan be given back to them, but the Professor and Ororo had had many words to say about that. As for the bodies of the deceased Morlocks, Callisto put aside her prejudices against top-siders and agreed to work with John Abernale and his coroner colleague.

"Is this at all connected to Shaw and Lorna?" Rogue murmured. "To Remy?" She thought of the flash of red eyes at the scene and shuddered. Had it been real or just a figment of her imagination?

"You know that's the first sign of insanity, right."

Rogue started and spun to face the door, "God, Kitty! You shouldn't sneak up on people."

Kitty walked to the sink beside Rogue and began trying to wash off the night's muck. She too had blood on her hands, and it seemed to disturb her more. Her walk had lost its perky up step, her voice had fewer intonations than usual, and her eyes had a sudden proclivity for looking down. "Why are you talking to yourself," she asked.

"Just thinkin' out loud... You okay, Kit?"

"I don't think any of us are right now. What are we going to do."

"Find out who did this and make 'em pay."

Kitty laughed mirthlessly. It was uncharacteristic of her, cynicism. "And how are we going to accomplish that."

"The way we always do, Kit."

"What, with your bazillion powers. I doubt even _you_ could sweep in and make this atrocity all neat and tidy."

Rogue was taken aback by the bitterness in her voice. She cleared her throat and took a step back, no longer sure what to do with the girl who used to be her best friend. Maybe Kitty just needed someone to lash out at, and why not Rogue, who had treated her so badly?

"I'm sorry, Rogue, I didn't mean that to—to be insulting. I just..." And then she burst out crying. Her chest heaved as she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "A-And Evan is so close to _death_ a-and Hank isn't even here to h-help him a-and on top of a-all the other bullcrap we have to deal with..."

Rogue felt tears spring to her eyes. It was always hard watching other people fall to despair. She hadn't gotten used to it, no matter how many devastated victims she had seen. It was even harder to see the X-Men, her _family,_ so pained. She blinked the tears back and wrapped her arms around Kitty, letting her cry on her shoulder. "Ah know, Kit. Ah know..."

"We have to stop this, Rogue! W-we have to! T-the world can't _be_ like this? H-how can it keep going like this?"

"It can't," Rogue said, squeezing Kitty tight as she sobbed. "We're going to try our hardest to make sure it doesn't."

* * *

Charles Xavier was not much of a drinker. He sat in his wheelchair, still awake and fully dressed despite the wee hour of the morning, staring out the window in his office. He was not a drinker, but at that moment, he reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of single-malt 40 year old whiskey, a gift from Eric Lensherr the day Apocalypse was banished from the world. They had had something to celebrate then, and the relief of those times couldn't allay the darkness of now. No, Xavier was not much of a drinker, but at that moment, it seemed appropriate. He poured himself two fingers and left the bottle on the desk. He took a swig and welcomed the smooth burn in his throat. He thought of his old friend and wondered where he was. For the past two years he had heard very little from Magneto, except for the occasional letter. Eric was so old fashioned, but he was doing well. Xavier had to assume so, since Magneto had been so off the grid for such a long time. Making no waves the way he used to. It didn't feel right... Xavier had the feeling his old friend was keeping something from him. Might it have to do with the 'project' his Acolytes had mentioned all that time ago? But what sort of project required such secrecy, such prolonged absence from the world Magneto once sought to conquer...? Xavier sensed one of the X-Men on his way to talk to him.

"Chuck."

Xavier turned toward the door and gestured for Logan to enter. He tipped his glass at the bottle of whiskey. Logan nodded. Xavier poured him two fingers as well and sat back, "I've been monitoring the situation."

"Then you know Evan's being kept under for his body to heal," Logan said. "We've fixed him up best we could, but my work isn't as streamlined as Hank's. There's no more we can do for him but wait."

"Will he survive the night?"

"Probably. He's a fighter, that kid."

Xavier tapped the rim of his glass, "And we have no leads."

"About that. I went back to the tunnels and took an extra sniff. Found something." Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag within which sat a tattered and stained card. King of Spades. "Personally, I only know of one mutant who carries tokens like this around."

Xavier's frown was dark and grave, "We shouldn't jump to conclusions. There could be any number of reasons why that would be down there."

"I don't much believe in coincidences like this, Charles. Especially not when we had a run-in with him at the fundraiser tonight. And if he really had something to do with all that killing, it's completely _abominable_, Charles, it's unforgivable."

"He didn't give you away, and he warned you about his companions. He doesn't seem clearly on their side."

"Or ours."

"He did save Rogue's life. She would have fallen to her death because of that collar."

"But what's that prove? Does it give him an excuse to run with a bunch of homicidal maniacs?"

"He was always a tough one to crack, Logan," Xavier sighed. "So many secrets buried in his mind, even things that anyone else would reveal in casual conversation, that don't have to be secrets but he's just that distrustful of people. I could sense it even then."

"No disrespect, Charles, but what's your point?"

"Remy LeBeau is many things, Logan, but he is not a mass murderer. If he was there during the Morlock massacre, then there is an explanation to uncover."

"I don't know about that. If I've learned one thing from life, it's that you never really know people."

"Nothing is certain. But we must not generalize."

"Fair 'nough. I think I should stick around here, let Rogue run point in Mongolia. Should we... tell her about this?"

"Not until we know more. I don't want to trouble her until we have concrete information," Xavier said. "Somehow Gambit is involved in all this, the fundraiser at the Plaza and now the Morlocks. We must locate him. Remember he was one of us for all intents and purposes for a while. I believe if we can find him, we'll be able to _reach_ him. He could shed a lot of light on current events."

"Are you going to try Cerebro?"

"In the morning, yes. Tonight... I believe we all need time to come to terms with what's happened."

Logan finished his whiskey and left the glass on the table. On his way out, "There're lots of pieces here, Charles."

"Yes, Logan?"

"I'm not sure I wanna find out how they all fit together."

"Is that not our job?"

"Sure. But I got a strong feeling we ain't gonna like the full picture."

* * *

Lance Alvers smiled, "Hello, Mr. McCoy. I heard you were locked up. You look well, considering the circumstances."

"I've been quite comfortable here, actually."

"What, with those idiots over there as company?" Lance pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the two goons watching them.

Hank shrugged, "I will admit the view leaves much to be desired. What have you done to deserve a room here?"

Lance surveyed the cell and eyed the top bunk. He flipped himself onto it and laid back, stretching out his legs. "I left X-Corps a few days ago," he said. "Went on vacation around Europe for a bit. But it was kinda hard to enjoy myself when it was all over the news: mutant attacks, anti-mutant laws. It's insanity."

"And so you returned to...lend your aid?"

"That's one way to put it. But the police have called it 'vigilantism'. I have a feeling the Friends of Humanity have some of the cops in their pocket, otherwise why would they arrest me for defending some mutants from being attacked on the streets _they're_ supposed to be keeping safe? It's like a war out there. If we don't fend for our own, who will?"

"Anti-mutant sentiment has increased much since you left home, Lance."

"Hmph, I'll say. So, what's your story?"

"Well, I guess you could say I was framed."

"Sucks."

"Yes, I must agree."

"Why didn't the X-Men bust you out?"

"I must stay the course," Hank said, with no anger or compunction in his voice. "My first hearing is coming up. The DA is a friend of ours sympathetic to mutant rights. He is trying to be just. May I ask, Lance, why did you allow yourself to be arrested?"

The young man shrugged, "There was a news crew. I didn't want to make us look bad."

"I see Sean Cassidy has trained you well. I remember a time you would not have cared about your public image."

"Yeah, gotta grow up sometime. However, as much as I enjoy talking to you Mr. McCoy, I do not plan to stay here and wait for them to arraign me."

"Understandably."

Lance leapt out of the bunk and gave Hank a smirk, "Want to come?"

Hank touched a hand to his chest and bowed his head briefly, "Much obliged, my friend, but alas, I cannot."

"Suit yourself." Avalanche turned to face the cell bars. With an extremely concentrated tremor that took a long time of disciplined training with X-Corps to perfect, he cracked the ground in front of him until the bars bent and broke out of place, leaving a gap wide enough for a man to crawl through. "Good luck, Mr. McCoy."

"Where, may I ask, are you going?"

"To track down a friend."

"Well, godspeed then."

Lance nodded and turned to move, but doubled back, "Hey, Mr. McCoy?"

"Yes, Lance?"

"I know we don't really know each other so well, but be careful, okay? I know a lot of people would get upset if anything happened to you in this shithole."

Hank smiled, "Thank you, Mr. Alvers," and watched the young man make his break out of jail.

* * *

Next: Chapter 11 - Hunt


	11. Hunt

**This one is very long. **For that I apologize. Sometimes I get carried away. REVIEW REPLIES: **Ish: **I'm glad none of all these details are confusing! If you say it's nicely balanced, I shall believe you! **Rogue4787:** Gah I only realized like a week ago that this Rogue-Remy fic seriously lacks some decent Rogue-Remyness. I think I'm getting too carried away with plot development! But worry not, because it'll all come soon. **jynxclaymore:** Yeah, trouble just follows Remy and now that he's feeling super guilty, he just _has_ to go looking for trouble, doesn't he? **jadare:** Thanks for going to the trouble of going desk-top to leave a review! Glad to know there are such avid readers out there!

THANK YOU for the reviews! They are helpful in helping me decide in which direction things need to go!

* * *

**Chapter 11 – Hunt**

Morning sunlight couldn't wash away the long night's deep and heinous darkness. A cloud seemed to hang on everyone at Xavier's school. The students barely spoke to each other, leaving an unnatural stillness in the air. The solemn atmosphere mimicked that of a funeral. No one spoke during breakfast, except for to ask someone to pass the orange juice or jam.

"So...school starts next week," Rahne said in between bites of toast. "Senior year."

Jubilee wrinkled her nose, "I can't even think about that. I've totally forgotten."

"I can't even think of going back to Bayville High after all this," Roberto groaned. "We're going to get so much shit after all this anti-mutant drama."

"Are the Morlocks going to have... a mass funeral?" Amara said softly.

Everyone looked at her, then turned grim faces back to stare at the food.

"Also, something's definitely going on that Xavier and the dream team aren't telling us," Jubilee suddenly said. "I mean, we're X-Men, too. Shouldn't we be kept in the loop?"

"I guess we are kind of young still," Rahne offered.

"Ugh, I hate that excuse! Rogue is only, what, three years older than me, and she's all Rambo all of a sudden? I saw her prepping the jet this morning. She's going somewhere important."

Roberto shrugged, "She was basically a mercenary for two years. I think that boosts her resume a little."

Jubilee sighed and shook her head, "I hate being left out of the action."

"Did you guys see that guy come in this morning?"

"Could you _be_ more vague, Rahne?"

"I can't remember his name! Haven't seen him in years. What was it—Larry? Lars? The earthquake dude."

"Lance? Lance Alvers?"

"Yea that's it! He came really early and met with the Professor."

"Wasn't he part of the Brotherhood? That guy was bad news."

"No he wasn't. He was just seriously misguided."

"Couldn't have been _that_ bad if Kitty liked him."

"Why's he even here?"

"I don't know. But he looked _good_. Clean-cut hair. Nice clothes. Got some muscles. Doesn't look like he's from the wrong side of the tracks anymore."

"Don't let Kitty hear you talk like that..."

"Oh, please, Amara, Kitty can't possibly still be hung up on him. They were never really that much of a thing anyway. Child's play."

"Like how old you are now?'

"Whatever."

"Wait, wasn't he in X-Corps, too, with Rogue?"

"What are you saying, Roberto?"

"Maybe he's coming to see her."

"Why—like they had a thing?"

"Lot can happen in two years."

X

Rogue had always liked hangars. She wasn't sure what it was about them—maybe the wide open space, their smooth metal structure, the soaring vehicles they housed. Or maybe it was just that hangars were the first step in the quickest and closest path to freedom. Nothing beat air travel.

She sat in the X-jet cockpit, sipping a cup of coffee and watching over the computer screen. She was waiting for Sean Cassidy's contact in Mongolia to connect. The signal had been absent for more than six minutes and she was beginning to grow impatient. Just when she was about to give up—God knew she had other things to do—the connection bleeped to life.

_"Hello? Agent Rogue?" _after a whirr of static.

"Hi there, you can just call me Rogue. What's your name?"

_"Mr. Cassidy didn't tell you?"_

"He did."

_ "Ah. Of course.__Temür at your service, ma'am."_

"Nice to meet ya, sir. What were the coordinates Cassidy gave you?"

_ "__51.5° north 100.65° east. Turta in Hovsgol Province."_

"Good. I'll be landing the jet there. It's my understanding that this place doesn't have much when it comes to locals."

_"No, ma'am. Highlands with a few nomads. But I think I've got what you are looking for."_

"Good. I'll be there in seven hours if my bird flies fast. And if I go undetected by the nationals."

_"Be careful. We're close to the Russian border and they watch their airspace closely."_

"Understood. See you at 1800."

_"Copy that."_ The line closed with a sharp click.

Rogue sat back in the chair and continued to drink her coffee. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the mysterious stone talisman Garbha-hsien had given her. Her fingers traced over the indiscernible etchings. She wondered what it was Temür had found that might answer some of her questions. The last thing she wanted was to go on some wild goose chase Indiana Jones-style.

Something moved in the hangar.

Rogue sat forward and calmly set her coffee down, slipping the talisman back in her pocket. She peered over the jet's dash, sharp eyes searching the hangar. Nothing. There had been something there. She knew it—

"You must be getting rusty."

Rogue rolled her eyes, recognizing the voice immediately. "Like Ah didn't hear your big feet trotting up the ramp." She turned around, one hand on her hip and an eyebrow raised, "Miss the good ol' days or somethin', Lance?"

Lance Alvers leaned comfortably against one of the jet's seats, dressed sharply in dark slacks, a crisp white shirt, and matching jacket. "Just broke out of jail," he shrugged. "Safest place for mutants seems to be here."

Rogue smiled. She had to admit, it was good to see an old friend. "So what happened? What about X-Corps?"

"I had to leave. I couldn't stay there when stuff here was going horribly wrong."

"What?"

"Hello, Rogue, where have you been? Anti-mutant attacks? Friends of Humanity?"

She sighed and waved her hand as if trying to swat the thoughts away, "Ah can't think about that now. How're Sean and the others?"

"Piotr ran back to Russia for...something to do with a sister? I can't really remember."

Rogue rolled her eyes, "Always the attentive listener, Alvers."

"Hey, you know he has a heavy accent! Anyway the others are still going at it. I left when they were still in Greece. You know how the xenophobia has gotten really bad? Well it's got nothing on the mutantphobia. It even had Sean cursing about wanting to put the perps we captured in Gitmo."

"Harsh."

"Or just same old same old. So you heading somewhere?"

"As a matter of fact: Mongolia."

"What for?"

"Long story."

"I got time."

Rogue sighed and looked at the clock on the dashboard. "Well Ah don't. So you better buckle up or get out. Ah'm leaving now."

Lance smirked, "Now that's more like it." He took the co-pilot's seat and began familiarizing himself with the computer system. "I see you've got some files on Mongolia up here... who's Garbha-hsien?"

"I'll brief you on the way," Rogue said, strapping herself in and securing the ship. She raised the ramp and started the engines. "Didn't you say you came back to help here?"

Lance looked at her blankly, then smiled, "What, I can't catch up with my old team mate?"

"Guess Ah wouldn't mind the company. Long flight."

"Excellent. Let's go hunting."

X

Cerebro was something Logan had never felt comfortable about. Its abilities and sheer power made him nervous. If there was anything at the Xavier Institute their enemies could want, it was this supercomputer. All they needed was a decent telepath and unimaginable damage could be done...

"Logan, did you near me?"

"Sorry, Chuck, what?"

"Must I continuously tell you not to call me that? Gambit was in Seattle. But it looks like he's on the move again."

"Where to?"

"He's on a plane... it's hard to pinpoint...one minute... United Airlines to...New Orleans."

Logan looked up at the ceiling of the spherical room and sighed, "So I gotta go to Louisiana."

"Not a fan of the Deep South, Logan?" One could almost hear a smirk in Xavier's voice.

"Too much fried food, hellova lot of hicks, and bad public education."

"I'm sure you can put those compunctions aside. He'll be landing in...Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. You can take the helicopter. Rogue left with the jet a few hours ago. And bring Jean with you. I'll let her know she should get prepared."

"Got it. You should know, if the Cajun doesn't cooperate, I'm not going to hesitate with force."

"Do what's necessary, but only that much, Logan, please."

"Understood." Logan left the Cerebro room and headed straight for his quarters. He packed a light bag with extra clothes. One never knew how long these search-and-obtain missions would last.

He was down in the hangar in less than five minutes prepping the chopper. Something dripped from its underbelly, he noticed. Oil leak. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the toolbox. After a few minutes tinkering, the leak was stopped. Blotches of dark fuel stained his shirt. In the cockpit he pulled off his shirt and rummaged through his bag for a clean one.

"Oh—sorry."

Logan spun around, shirtless, and locked eyes with a staring Jean standing awkwardly, a backpack over one shoulder. For just five seconds too long her eyes wandered along his chest, the firm dips and swells of his muscles and up to his face. Logan noticed. His mutant abilities were heightened senses and awareness; he couldn't _not_ notice. He cleared his throat and pulled on his shirt, "Grab a seat, Red. We're heading out."

"Right. Yeah. Ok." She sat down and buckled her seatbelt with unnecessary expediency. For the whole ride to New Orleans, she kept her eyes trained out the window, so thankful she was the telepath, not her companion.

X

It was hot and humid, the type of weather that made your skin feel lke it was constantly coated with a thin film of butter. As he stood outside the airport arrivals gate with Jean, he thought about how lucky Rogue was to be trekking through the arrid plateaus of Mongolia. No humidity at altitudes like that.

"What time is Gambit's flight supposed to land?" Jean's voice broke into his thoughts.

Logan had noticed her tension during the entire flight from New York. He chose to ignore it. She was just a girl. "According to the info Charles sent us, right about...now."

Dressed in inconspicuous jeans and a navy T-shirt with Ray Bans over his mutated eyes, Remy LeBeau looked like any other traveler, except with a tendency to turn the head of every woman he walked past. His mouth was drawn into a flat line and he seemed to walk with a slouch. He did not have any luggage. Immediately, he got into a cab.

"Come on, Red," Logan said. "We're on." Pushing through the crowds of travelers, he hailed them a taxi. As they piled in, "Follow that cab," he said.

"I'm sorry, sah, but I dunno which one y'talkin' 'bout."

From the backseat, Jean stifled a chuckle as Logan rolled his eyes.

"_That _one!"

"Calm down, sonny! I'm on it!" The cabbie sped them forward.

They merged onto the interstate, cutting in and around cars to follow Gambit's cab. Once off the highway, the streets eventually began to narrow, the buildings growing closer together. In the dusky light, the French Quarter seemed to glow with amber warmth. Bars and restaurants that never closed had awakened from daytime snoozing to the loyal patrons of New Orleans nightlife.

"I think you've been here before," Jean said, "the first time, when Gambit kidnapped Rogue."

"You mean he kidnapped her another time?" Logan smirked.

Jean pursed her lips together, "Oh, you know what I mean." She seemed intrigued by the Spanish-style buildings with semblances of French colonial influence. Most of the original buildings had burned down in the Great New Orleans Fire. What remained were the flat-tiled roofs and city code-violating wooden siding with stucco walls, the colorful painting and elaborate ironwork decorating balconies and galleries. "This place looks kind of romantic," she said. She caught Logan's eye in the rearview mirror and cleared her throat, looking away.

"Looks like y'chap's stopped," the cabbie said, pulling up against a curb. He nodded ahead, to where Gambit was getting out of his taxi.

"Thanks, bub," Logan said, giving him a few bills. They got out of the cab and followed Gambit down the street.

The young man walked with purpose, moving past other pedestrians as if impatient with his own stride.

"He's sure walking fast," Jean panted, as she picked up her speed. They were 20 paces behind him.

"He's seen us," Logan said.

"What, how? He hasn't looked back once."

"Trust me, he knows."

As if to prove the point, Gambit abruptly turned and cut down a side street.

"Come on!" Logan hissed, grabbing Jean's hand and pulling her forward.

The streets of the French Quarter were getting crowded. Tourists and locals alike had flooded the area for its famous nightlife and tantalizing culinary tastes. Logan and Jean zigzagged through and around them, nudging past people who yelled at them in frustration, "Excuse you!" Gambit was always just a little too far ahead, not even running, but managing to cut around people and corners as if he were walking through them. As they turned onto another side street, Jean stopped and leaned against a wall to catch her breath.

"How is he doing this?" she gasped. "God, I need water."

"Guy's a pro," Logan said, head tilted as if judging the air. "This way."

"How do you know?"

"Scent."

"Of course," Jean sighed and followed Logan through another crevice of the French Quarter. As they got to the end of the street, Logan stopped and peeked around the corner.

"Looks like Gumbo fancies himself a drink. Red, you're going into that restaurant."

Jean's eyes widened, "Uh, what?"

"This is a...delicate situation," Logan said. "We need to try to convince him to come back with us. Now I'm totally fine with just knocking him out, but that'll cause a scene. I think you can do a better job of cajoling him than I can."

"Cajole?" Jean echoed, one side of her mouth curling up as if she didn't like the taste of the word in her mouth.

"Yep. Cajole."

"Ok, I don't really know what that means but I'll try..."

"Keep your comm link open. I want to be able to hear everything that goes on in there."

Jean sighed and straightened out her clothing. She tied her hair into a ponytail, feeling sweaty, gross, and in no state to do any effective cajoling, "All right, but don't hate me if I fail."

"Never, Red," Logan half-smiled.

Jean smiled back and could feel a warmth crawling onto her cheeks. _Oh, God,_ she thought, _what is wrong with me?_ She quickly turned and crossed the street to the entrance of the bar. Once inside a flood of cool air conditioning hit her face. It was a welcome reprieve from the mugginess of a Southern summer outside. The restaurant was barely lit, save for the slanted sunlight streaming in from the windows. Light bluegrass music played over the speakers. Only a handful of patrons sat in the bar section, a few already getting started on an early dinner in the dining area. Remy LeBeau sat at the counter, his back to the door, a glass of whiskey at his fingertips.

Jean approached and awkwardly sat on a stool one away from him, "Uh, hi."

Remy seemed genuinely surprised to see her. Then he started chuckling.

Jean looked around as Remy continued to laugh. The bartender at the other end of the bar wiping glasses glanced at them for a second before returning to work. She cleared her throat, "I really don't see what's funny."

"Don't y'petite?" Remy said, chuckling into his whiskey glass as he took a swig. He winced, "Agh, should've gotten bourbon."

"Look, whatever, I just came here to talk to you."

"Nice job trackin' me. T'ough I t'nk dat be Logan's handiwork, non?"

"Can we please talk?"

"Got not'ing t'talk about."

"Don't be like that. We know you're in some trouble. We want to help."

"I highly doubt dat, mon ami, not when y'find out de truth."

At his words, Jean thought of all the slayed Morlocks, all the bodies Rogue and Logan carried out of the sewers. She couldn't believe Gambit would have anything to do with such a horrific crime. With her telepathic powers on low, she could feel a sadness seeping out of him, however hard he tried to hide it with that exterior of nonchalance and arrogance. This man had serious defense mechanisms. "What's the truth then, Remy?" she prodded.

"Why don' y' just read m'mind, chere?"

"Because I respect your privacy."

"Dat's what's wrong wit' you X-Men. Too soft. No room for dat in de world dese days." He finished his glass and waved the bartender over for top-off, "Bourbon this time, mon frere. And leave the bottle."

"Haven't you had enough?" Jean frowned.

"'Enough' is relative," Remy said, and knocked back another shot.

Jean waited until the bartender left. She lowered her voice, "Are you in this funk because of last night? Logan found a card in the sewers. It looked like one of yours..."

Remy noticeably stiffened. He kept his eyes trained ahead and said nothing.

Jean swallowed the lump in her throat. She was not used to these sorts of interactions. Sure, she had been trained to fight and defend, to use her powers. But the delicate matters of interrogation and persuasion? She was in untread waters, and would have to count on her keen intuition and empathy. "And then there's Shaw and the Friends of Humanity. You working with a very disturbed Lorna Danes..."

"Y' t'ink y'know what's going on," Remy asked, voice flat and hard. "Y'know _nothing_."

She was losing him. She had to play the only card she really had, "I know Rogue is grateful you saved her life."

Remy spared a glance at her, as if he were surprised at her words.

"We all are. If it weren't for you, she'd be dead. And she would never admit it but she misses you. A lot. After you left I helped her to try and get past it, and it worked for a while, but then she left. Did you know that? She was so upset she just _left_ _home_ and went off to join some _paramilitary_ group, fighting _international criminals, _putting her life at risk every day for God knows what. Now she's back and she's...stronger and more controlled. But something's not quite all right there, I can feel it. I think she needs help." The words were spilling out of her in a tense wave of sincerity. He was looking at her now and she stared into his hard red and black eyes with a frantic intensity in her warm blues, "Last night we found the Morlocks brutally _murdered. _Dead bodies everywhere, so much blood and pain. Somehow Rogue could stomach carrying the bodies, just moved them out of the sewers as if she did that sort of thing every day. Heck, maybe she did when she was fighting terrorists in Pakistan or military juntas in Myanmar or wherever. That's how affected she was by _you_. She's built these walls around herself as if they make her invulnerable but she's _not_, Remy. And the longer she keeps bottling everything up like it's no big deal, like it doesn't affect her—one day she's going to _pop_. And with her mutant abilities, that's _dangerous—_for her, for everyone around her. You saw what happened at the hotel. You saw how Sebastian Shaw took advantage of her." Jean was almost breathless.

Remy looked into his glass. After a few seconds, "And what do y'expect me t' do, fille?"

The coldness of his words took her aback. Anger began to boil at the pit of her stomach. With a snap of telekinetic power, she broke the glass in his hands into four even pieces. The bourbon spilled over his fingers.

"Didn't see dat comin'," he said, and set the shards down carefully to avoid being cut.

Jean glared at him, "I expect you to stop the act. Because all of this—the Morlock massacre, the power negating collars, the laboratory full of mutant experiments, the Friends of Humanity—all of it could get Rogue _killed _and you're invovled somehow. I _know_ you don't want a part in that. Because you _love_ her."

He glared right back, shoulders squared, biceps tight, looking ready to attack. "You so sure 'bout dat, Jean Grey? How you know? Maybe I just played de girl 'cause she was de easiest target. Sad lil' loner who couldn't touch, just begging for some homme to come in and sweetin' her virgin little—"

Jean heard the words and his tone of voice and felt the contradicting feelings radiating from him—self-loathing, guilt, despair—but the words were strong, the tone convincing. Her hand was up before she realized it, moving to slap him. But he caught it midair and jerked her forward until they were face to face and he breathed rough hot air onto her cheeks.

"Y' don't know me, little girl," he seethed. "Y' don' know what I've done, what I can do, so shut your mouth."

The door to the restaurant slammed open as Logan burst inside. He was on Remy in an instant, knocking him back with a punch to the face. Remy flew over bar counter, breaking glasses and bottles of liquor. Screams erupted in the restaurant.

"You okay, Red?" Logan said, squeezing her shoulder.

Jean felt uncomfortable under the concern in Logan's eyes, "Yeah it's fine—he didn't hurt me. It was my fault. Logan—go easy."

"Go easy?"

Mirthless laughter floated up from behind the bar as Remy stood up, dusting himself off. "What's dis, you two de dream team now? How would good ol' One-Eye feel 'bout dat?"

"Shut your face, Cajun," Logan snapped. "Touch her again, and you're going to have three very big problems." He raised his fist, slowly extending his adamantium claws. "Now, you got two choices: Come with us willingly or tied up."

"De X-Men in de business o' kidnappin' now, mon frere?" Remy slowly touched a line of newly polished glasses, charging up their molecules until they glowed to threatening brightness. "What if I don't come easy? Y' want t'risk the lives of people in dis wonderful establishment?"

Logan huffed and shook his head, retracting his claws, "This all a joke to you, boy? I'm not going to play your game. There are other ways."

"No, mon ami," Remy said, his expression darkening, "there aren't."

Jean knew it was her cue. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the mind of Remy LeBeau. She heard him cry out when she began trying to break into his psyche. Somehow he had natural blocks, as if his life as a thief and mercenary had lent him great powers of privacy. She concentrated, adding more force. Finally breaking in, she could feel his resistence immediately. _Get out o' m'head! Don't do dis! Dey're comin'!_

_Remy, I'm just trying to get information._ She was starting to see images, his most recent memories. The needle in Seattle, jutting into the cloudy sky. A pale-skinned, frightening-looking man in a white lab coat. A laboratory. So familiar... Pain. Frustration. Anger. An ampule with some sort of liquid in it—

From inside Remy's mind, Jean could feel something hard and blunt hit the head of her physical body. The impact distracted her powers as they knocked her out. She fell to the ground, clinging desperately to consciousness. She could hear one last thought of Remy's before she succumbed to blackness.

_I didn' want t'drag y'guys into dis._

X

"Wait, literally... all of them?"

Rogue's mind was filled with images from last night's fatalities, the broken and bloodied bodies she had carried in her arms. She remembered the red eyes in the darkness, the ones that reminded her of Remy. Had he been there? Why? How? It was an effort to push all these thoughts away, to focus on the now, on her mission. She couldn't afford to be burdened by rumination. It broke her concentration.

"Some survived," she said, eyes scanning the dashboard monitors every now and again. The jet's computer had plotted a direct course for them to Mongolia, and the autopilot was giving them smooth sailing. But Rogue never liked allowing machines complete autonomy, so she remained vigilant.

"But...who would go after the Morlocks?" Lance exclaimed, completely dumbfounded by the news. "They don't do anything but hang out in their tunnels!"

"The mutants who attacked them, they weren't doing it on their own," Rogue said. "Someone did the hiring, wanted their DNA samples."

"DNA? Great. Fan-frickin'-tastic. I knew this was going to get even more twisted. Do we have any leads on that?"

"Logan mentioned he was checking something out before Ah left, but he wouldn't tell me more. Ah think this hit him hard, too."

"If it's bad enough to ruffle the Wolverine's feathers, then it's bad."

"Trust me, Lance, it's worse than bad."

"Especially with that power cancelling collar you mentioned. What the hell is going on in the world these days?"

Rogue had no idea. It was chaos. But she had a feeling this trip to Mongolia would shed a little light on the mysteries. Over the next few hours of the flight, Lance and her took turns in the pilot seat. On the last shift, a fatigue so great washed over her, and she realized she had not slept for nearly a whole day. She dozed off in her seat. She could feel the hum of the jet engine beneathe her, rocking her to sleep. And she dreamed.

She stood on a cliff face, staring out on to a wide expanse of a city scintillating in the bright sunlight. Somehow from her high perch she could see people walking in the streets, sipping coffee in cafes, chatting away in office buildings and apartment buildings, could sense their contentment. They worked, they relaxed, they lived so peacefully—and they were all mutants.

"It's the promised land, Rogue."

She turned to face the woman next to her. Selene. She was beautiful, dark hair fluttering lightly in the mountain breeze, soft smile on her ageless lips.

"What do you mean?" Rogue asked. She felt no anger, no apprehension, and thought that was strange. Logically she knew she had ill feelings toward this phantom woman, but her dream-self could not viscerally sense any of that vexation.

Selene put a soft hand on her shoulder, smile unwavering, "You were right, I am a mutant. We are all brothers and sisters, Rogue. We shouldn't fight each other. And this, this place is where we can truly call home."

Rogue looked out over the land, past the city citadels and dwarf mountains, and could make out the gleaming surface of ocean. She realized they were on an island. "Where am Ah?"

"Paradise," Selene whispered. "And you can make it possible."

"Me?"

"You'll save us all, Rogue."

"From what? How?"

"There will be no room for him and us."

Rogue's eyes widened, "What, who?"

"You know who."

"No. Ah don't."

"Do not lie to yourself, Rogue. That will only impede your progress." Selene slowly waved a hand over the city and people below, "All of them need you. We _all_ need you. He will only get in the way. He will only hurt you and fetter you, divid you. You must choose."

"Ah don't understand."

"You will. You have to know what to see."

Rogue glared at her, the absent anger beginning to simmer to the surface of her consciousness, "You keep saying that, but how the hell am Ah supposed to know what that _means?_"

"Patience, Rogue..."

"No! This is bullshit! Who are you? What are you talking about? Where is this place? Is it even real or are ya messing with my head again?" Rogue grabbed Selene's shoulders, clutching her harder than she knew was necessary. The woman felt soft under her strong fingers, almost delicate, but she knew it was a facade. The moment their skin touched, she could feel the vitality pulsing inside her, a great and terrible power.

The smile left Selene's face, replaced by a resigned sadness. "Paradise won't wait forever for you," she said. "You will come to me when you see." And she began to disintegrate, her body dehydrating so rapidly she began granules of sand in mere seconds, just like Garbha-hsien.

Rogue gasped, watching the woman she was holding mere moments ago become nothing but dust in her palms.

She awoke with a start, confused and dazed. The dream had felt so real, as if it had been more than a dream. Had Selene somehow gotten into her head? Could this mutant have such powers? Were they connected? The hum of the engines was gone. They were no longer in the air.

"Got your beauty rest, sunshine? You were out for a long time. I landed at your coordinates." Lance was trying to manuever the security systems. "You have some anti-theft on this boat, right?"

Rogue rubbed her eyes and stood, nudging Lance out of the way, "Let me do it. I have to make a call first." She turned on the radio to hail Temür, but stopped when she saw something moving right below the nose of the jet outside.

A lean Mongolian man with a friendly face, dressed in dusy khakis and a heavily pocketed vest, waved at them. Temür.

"That your contact?" Lance asked.

"Yeah. Go and introduce yourself. I'll lock up here." As Lance left, Rogue deflated into the pilot's seat. She felt exhausted by the dream, which she was beginning to suspect had been actual contact with that woman Selene. She did not seem menacing, however infuriatingly cryptic. In fact, she reminded Rogue of Garbha-hsien, the way she spoke, the urgency. Was she not the enemy after all? What was it she wanted Rogue to do? Where was that island, that "paradise"? And most eerily, had she been talking about Remy? How was that even possible?

Or maybe it had just been a dream. Or perhaps Rogue was losing her mind again.

Outside Lance had told a joke that had Temür laughing. They waved her down to join them.

_Great,_ Rogue thought with a roll of her eyes, _bro time._

When she stepped out of the jet, she could finally see the raw beauty of the arrid mountainous landscape. The amber hues of dawn washed everything in a warm, fiery glow, even though the fading night had left a chilly breeze. There was nothing for miles around—no man-made structures, no people. Except off in the distance of the reddish earth, she could see a lone man herding a few goats.

After introductions, Temür handed her a brown shawl, "It is cold. Wrap this around yourselves. It will also keep you from breathing in the dust if it gets windy. May I see the artifact?"

Rogue handed him Garbha-hsien's talisman. Temür examined it with great interest. "Yes," he said, "it is exactly like the others."

"Not to sound rude," Lance piped up, "but how are you an expert on this?"

Temür removed a small magnifying glass from his pocket to better scrutinize the markings on the stone. "I'm an anthropologist at Tsinghua University. My specialty is the ancient origins of people like you, mutants. You are familiar with En-sabah Nur?"

Lance and Rogue exchanged knowing looks.

"I was on the team that first discovered the artifacts depicting En-sabah Nur. I spearheaded the initial research. I've been in Mongolia for two years investigating another similar occurrence."

"What do you mean 'similar occurence'?"

"Mutant behavior. There are oral histories that have been passed down for generations, hundreds of years, and they tell of beings with inhuman powers." Temür handed the talisman back to Rogue and dropped his magnifying glass back into one of the many pockets of his vest. "And these oral histories were painted in the caves. We are heading north. Follow me."

"What exactly did you find?" Rogue asked. She followed Temür away from the jet, toward an outcropping of a plateau twenty meters away.

"I've spent a lot of time living among the nomads," Temür said. "They are wary of outsiders, as you can understand. However, they pointed me to some ancient caves, one of the last temples that haven't been looted. That stone of yours, there are others with similar markings that I found inside this very temple. In ancient script, it reads 'the eternal outsider'."

_Last of the Ex-..._ Eternal outsider. Cataclysm.

They came to the foot of the plateau and followed Temür up the side. They climbed up the jagged cliffside on rocks that provided no easy footing. Before they had gone too far up, Temür leapt into a hidden alcove concealed by a large section of razor-like rock jutting up from the base. From the ground, it the grotto was virtually invisible.

"Now I see why this place wasn't looted," Lance said, dusting himself off. "I definitely didn't wear the right shoes for this."

Rogue chuckled, "That's what you get for trying to look like a pretty boy."

Lance flashed her a sideways smile, "Are you saying I look pretty?" He held her glance for a few seconds too long.

Without a word she turned to join Temür, who was standing beside a passageway into the side of the mountain. He turned on a flashlight, "The temple is inside."

The tunnel was cramped and low ceilinged. They crouched low to get through. Temür's flashlight being too weak for her tastes, Rogue decided to light the path her own way. She raised a hand and summoned flames to ignite in her palm. The torch burned so bright, Temür shut off his flash light with a smile.

"I've always envied you mutants," he admitted. "In all my years studying your anthropologic history, your abilities have never ceased to amaze me."

"If only the rest of the world felt the same," Lance huffed. "Looks like we're here."

They entered the main chamber, an open space with a large circular stone in the center and smaller stoneworks littering the area around. Archaic tools for painting and carving lay around it, as if their owners had left for a lunch break and would return any minute. Rogue saw talismans similar to hers lined up at the foot of the north-facing wall. Upon the wall were elaborate etchings and drawings depicting scenes she could not comprehend. She held the light up higher to get a better view.

"You've found it," Temür said. "This is what I wanted to show you. This wall is dedicated entirely to a being known commonly among local legends as Saul. You know him as Garbha-hsien, his more ancient name."

Lance peered at the cave paintings with the look of a teenager staring at the complex equations of quantum mechanics, "How can you make sense of any of this?"

"Long months of study," Temür chuckled. He pointed at a section illustrating a humanoid shape with lines splaying out from its body. "Here is told the story of Saul—or Garbh-hsien—who was first seen centuries ago. Since then, according to local legend, he lived among the people and never aged. He became their benevolent god, aiding them in times of crises like drought, earthquake, disease, war. He was wise beyond his years but carried with him a darkness everywhere he went. His superhuman abilities seemed vast: strength, immortality, bursts of power that could shatter stone. No one dared attack the people under his protection. Nowadays obviously we know him as one of the first mutants."

"So what happened?" Rogue asked. "How did he end up tracking me down in New York?"

"The legends say Saul was very troubled by the knowledge he possessed. That darkness he carried with him, he never spoke of it, except to a young man, his apprentice, with whom he shared everything. This 'darkness' as the legends call it—there is no better translation of the ancient word—still isn't quite clear. Perhaps it is not literal but figurative, meaning Saul had a great worry on his mind. Many believe he foresaw a great disaster that would befall the people."

_ Thousands will perish...she has eradicated us all... Only you can stop it... the Cataclysm... _

Rogue felt a chill slither up her spine, "He could see the future?"

"Perhaps. His exact mutant abilities aren't known. We cannot know what disaster or what people, or if it has already happened. It's all legend."

"Clearly it's not," Lance said, "since this guy actually showed up and accosted Rogue."

Temür put a hand to his chin and frowned in deep thought, "If that man you met was truly Saul, Rogue, then your problems are bigger than anything I can help you with. However, there is one bit of information you may find helpful. Saul Garbha-hsien the "eternal outsider", or "external" as he was sometimes called..."

_Last of the Externals. _That was it. Rogue could feel her heart speed up at the excitement of a piece coming together in this mind boggling puzzle.

"...was not the only one of his kind. In the apprentice's last writings before his death, it was written that there were others like Saul, precisely, there were seven others. Each represented an intangible concept: despair, fortitude, guile, ferocity, opportunity, wisdom, patience, and corruption. Saul was the champion of patience."

Lance wrinkled his nose, "Sounds like he had some messed up friends."

_She has eradicated us all. _Rogue stared at the section of the wall Temür was pointing at, where the eight Externals were depicted, each with a foreign symbol illustrating the concept they embodied. "Some of the Externals are women," she noticed, judging by the drawings.

"That's right," Temür said. "Guile and Corruption seem to be female."

"How feminist," Lance drawled.

Rogue increased the power of the fire in her hand to light up the higher sections of the wall. Something had caught her attention, a drawing of a blobby shape surrounded by horizontal swiggles. "Is that supposed to be an island?" Like the one from her dream?

Temür followed her gaze, "Ah yes, the legend of Shangri-la, or Utopia, or Paradise—there are many names for this place. Saul often told the people of a land surrounded by water on all sides that would be the home of people like him. There, he hoped one day his kind and humankind could live together in mutual understanding and brotherhood. But long before that day, there would be the darkness, the foretold disaster."

_Paradise won't wait forever for you, Rogue. You will come to me when you see._ Things in her dream, realizing in the real world. She felt strange, that sensation of waking up from a vivid dream and not being able to discern what was real from what was not.

"The Cataclysm," Rogue said.

Temür looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, "Cataclysm? Hmm... I suppose that could be a more accurate translation for the ancient word. This drawing here..." He directed their gaze to a painting shaped like a spark, with a human-like shape at the center, all of it encased in a thick circle. "...this is the being that will bring about the Cataclysm, as foretold by Saul."

"This sounds like Apocalypse all over again," Lance groaned.

Rogue scowled, "Apocalypse is gone. This is a whole new ball game. Temür, is it an External that will cause the Cataclysm? Does it say when?"

"It's impossible to tell. Saul left no indication. Perhaps he did not know."

"You'd think the guy would be less vague about such important things," Lance said. "How is this going to help us?"

Rogue didn't hear him, lost in a mind full of images from the dream, the memory of Garbha-hsien's last words, Selene. "The Externals are all dead," she suddenly said.

Lance and Temür stared at her. "How do you know?" Temür asked. He took out a notepad and began scribbling. "Is there evidence?"

"Garbha-hsien—Saul—whatever his name was, he told me right before he died. He said 'she' had 'eradicated' them all. Is there anything here that says who 'she' might be?"

Temür's brow furrowed even further, as if his face was capable of boundless frowning. "Unfortunately not. But this is incredibly disturbing, that someone could destroy the Externals, who were immortal."

Lance shrugged, "Being immortal doesn't mean you can't be killed."

What did all this mean? Rogue wondered. Why had Garbha-hsien led her here? If all the Externals were dead, what did any of this matter? She stared up at the cave paintings, wondering what clues were there that she just wasn't seeing. A vague inkling pointed her to the island, and the explosion-like illustration of the Cataclysm. _It's the promised land, Rogue._ It was not coincedence. Selene had actually visited her subconscious. That disturbed her more than anything. How much access did that woman have?

"What is the Cataclysm supposed to be anyway?" she asked.

Temür looked at her gravely, "A horrible event. I can only imagine it involves death, great multitudes of death."

Rogue shuddered. Lance saw and put a hand on her shoulder. She shot him a warning look and he removed it. To Temür, "Does the name Selene mean anything to you?"

"Hmm...no. Should it?"

"Ah don't know."

They stood in silence, staring up at the wall of untold secrets. "It has been centuries since Saul first warned the people of this event," Temür finally said. "That he has approached you now, that you have come to this place, all this tells me something great and terrible is right on the horizon."

"What are you saying?" Lance frowned.

Temür gestured toward the paintings, "I'm saying be prepared."

X

By the dull throb in his skull, Remy knew he'd been captured. He came to and found himself sitting tied up with plastic cords to a chair in a very famliar salon. Exactly as he'd planned. He had gone to that restaurant knowing it was a haunt for Rippers. The only hitch was, he had company.

"Well ain't this sweet, Gumbo," Logan growled drowsily, bound in a chair against the other wall. "Back at your friends' house."

"Nobody asked y' t'come along," Remy drawled. Judging by the dizziness and headache, he realized they had been shot with tranquilizers. Probably because Logan would have torn up all the Rippers otherwise. "Y' all right there, homme? Lookin' a little pasty."

"Bastards tranq'd me with a extra strong dose... Red, hey Red... Jean!"

She lay on the floor, hands and feet bound. She groaned inaudibly then was quiet again.

"What the hell'd you get us mixed up in, Cajun?" Logan demanded. He twisted in the chair, trying to loosen the cords, or, trying to get his fists at the right angle to extract his claws and cut them.

Remy looked at the floor, remembering the day he came back home with Henri. He remembered the Rippers' promises, the Rippers' lies, Belladonna's pleas, the death of Belladonna's father. "Y' best keep quiet, Logan," he said. "Their business is wit' me, not you."

"Little late for that, don't you think? We've clearly been thrown into the same shithole."

The door to the salon opened for Julien Bourdreaux and two Rippers to enter. "Well, well Remy LeBeau," Julien said. "Y' make it too easy for us, non?"

"I came back as promised. Let de ot'ers go."

"An' where be de fun in dat?"

Logan groaned from his chair, "Your accents are _killing_ me."

"Shut y' mout'!" Julien snapped, signalling one of his men. Logan received a sharp punch to the face. "Y' friends be here for insurance, Remy, in case y' refuse to cooperate."

"M'here, ain't I? Go on. Kill me."

"Why you talking crazy, Gumbo?" Logan exclaimed. Of all things, he would never have expected a hired thief, a mercenary, to surrender to execution. For his outburst he received another hit to the jawline. He spat out blood and leered at his attacker out of the corner of his eye. "One more, bub...just give me one more..."

"Kill you?" Julien laughed humorlessly. "Y' killed my fat'er, LeBeau. Killin' y' be too light a punishment. Dose freak powers of yours killed Rippers _and_ T'ieves dat day. Ain't dat right?" When Remy didn't look at him, "'Course s' right. Now y' back, powers back in control, neh? Seekin' redemption f' y' deeds, boy? Well I got news for y': dere ain't no redemption here. You'll be in hell de rest of y 'days."

Remy remembered it all, the look of horror on his father's face, on Tante Mattie's and Henri's, at the dead bodies around him after his powers stopped surging. His body had charged inexplicably, uncontrollably, exploding with the excess energy, killing and injuring so many around him. Thieves and Rippers, wasted in mere seconds—all because of Le Diable Blanc, living up to his name in the worst of ways. Had that power just been waiting to break free, was he inherently meant to kill so many people. What did that make him then? A true diable? It would make sense, especially now with Morlock blood on his hands. So much killing around him. So much death...

"Y' fat'er an' I reached an agreement, boy," Julien's voice broke into his thoughts. "Y' belong to us now."

Jean-Luc had traded him in. He wasn't surprised, though his curiosity did make him wonder what for.

"I own you," Julien sneered. "Anyt'ing the Rippers need, you will deliver. Especially wit' dose mutant powers o' yours. And here comes your warden, boy."

The door to the salon opened again. A young woman walked in, canary-blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore a black dress and jacket with black heels, as if she were on her way to a funeral. Her pretty eyes were trained on Remy as she approached, a troubled look on her exquisite features.

"Belle," Remy couldn't look at her. "I came back t' settle de score. Didn't t'ink you'd be de one I'd have t' settle it wit'."

She stood in front of him, arms crossed, climbing onto her resolve, "What Remy, y' t'ink I'm not a Ripper, too? Dis my _family_. I'll inherit all dis one day, and I got t' keep de peace." She knelt down beside him, lifting his face by the chin to look at her. Her features began to soften, "An' I want you here t' keep it wit' me chere. It ain't too late for dat,"

Remy turned away, "It _is_ too late, Belle. M'not de man f' dat job anymore."

She bristled, standing up and turning her back. "We had a future, Remy, and y' ruined it."

"We weren't meant t' be. Y' know dat, Belle."

At those words, she spun around, her hand smacking against the side of his face. "How _dare_ you," she seethed. "You _loved_ me."

"I did, chere, but dis wasn't de life I wanted. And y' just couldn't see it..."

"Well now y' done it, Remy. S' all gone and look where you've ended up. I don't like dis any more dan you do, but tell me, tell me, what am I supposed t' do?" She seemed to be pleading behind her anger, behind her unwavering loyalty to the Rippers.

"How about live and let live, Blondie?" Logan said. With a sharp _snikt_ his adamantium claws sliced through the cords that bound him. He was flying through the air before anyone could react, slamming into the guard that had punched him and knocking him out cold in one swift blow. He pummeled into the second man without missing a beat.

"De prisoner is free!" Julien howled. "Security breach!"

More Rippers burst into the salon, coming at Wolverine with fists he beat back viciously. Regardless of his skills, he couldn't take them all at once. Remy grudgingly charged the cords tying his hands until they disintegrated, setting him free. He had not wanted to fight, but he couldn't very well let them kill Logan. They had brought guns. He lifted the chair and smashed it into kindling, picking up the splinters to charge as mini-bombs.

"Remy's gone back on his word!" Julien screamed. "_KILL HIM!"_ His cry drowned out Belladonna's pleas, "No! Stop!" as the Rippers refocused their efforts on killing the Thief.

He didn't make it easy for him, dodging blows, attacking with charged splinters. The Rippers efforts were so split between Remy and Logan, that the X-Man was able to gain the upperhand. He eliminated the single Ripper between him and the most valuable target, and seized her throat, adamantium claws extracted just close enough to graze her skin.

Belladonna screamed, trying to squirm out of Wolverine's grasp to no avail. "Everyone stop! Unless you want me to make Blondie here a few inches shorter. Now, let us all talk like civilized people. You're gonna let me, LeBeau, and the redhead walk out of here nice."

_Merde,_ Remy thought. _Dis is out of control. _He tried to think of a way to get Belladonna out of Logan's clutches, when he saw Julien out of the corner of his eye, holding a pistol against a still-unconscious Jean's forehead. _Merde deux fois._

"Foolish man," Julien sneered. "Y' t'ink s' so easy to outsmart a Ripper? Let go o' my sister, or y' girlfriend gets it."

A primal fury burned in Logan's eyes as he and Julien glared back at each other, both men tense and ready to deal the final blow. The others watched, knowing the situation had gone to a place no one wanted it to be, but not knowing how to stop it.

"Stop dis!" Remy suddenly shouted. He stood between them, hands held up, "Both of you, don't go doin' somet'ing y' both go'n' regret."

Julien did not flinch, "Y' mutie friend lets Belle go first."

"Don't count on it," Logan glared.

"Why you so keen to save dis T'ief anyway, mutant," Julien demanded. He pushed the barrel of the gun harder into Jean's temple, who was beginning to stir. She moaned lightly. "Y' willing t' risk de life o' dis pretty young fille for a scumbag murderer?"

"He's got a point," Remy said. "Let Belle go, Logan, and you an' Jean can get outta here."

"See, that won't fly with me, Gumbo. You are coming with us."

Belladonna twisted pointlessly in Wolverine's grip. "Shoot her, Julien!" she shouted. "He go'n' kill me anyway!" She shrieked when Logan pressed his blades against her face, nearly enough to cut the surface of her skin. Her panicked scream seemed to rattle her brother.

"All right!" Julien shouted. "We duel. Winner take all."

Logan almost laughed, "You livin' in the 17th century, bub?"

"S' a matter of honor, mutant," Julien spat. "We don' expect de likes of you t'understand dat. Me against LeBeau. He wins, y' all go free. He loses, he's ours. Ripper's word."

Remy nodded at Logan, giving him an entreating look, "S'fair homme. Let me take responsibility for dis."

Logan looked at one Cajun to the next, wondering what period film he'd wandered into. Now he had another reason to dislike the Deep South: antiquated customs. He retracted his claws and released Belladonna to her brother, who in turn pocketed his pistol. "All right, bub. I always enjoy a good show."

X

"So... they're fighting to the death?"

"Supposedly."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Didn't have much of a choice, Red. Had to do something while you were taking a nap."

"Hey—oh, whatever. Do you think Gambit has a chance?"

"He'll win."  
"How are you so confident?"

"Gumbo's a scrapper. Gotta be one to know one."

"Did you just insult me?"

"Sensitive much?"

Jean scowled and crossed her arms, turning her attention back to where everyone else's eyes were fixated.

Dozens of Rippers and Thieves had gathered in the field near the Ripper homestead. Word had spread of Le Diable Blanc's return and this day of reckoning. All had heard of what he'd done two years ago when he first came home, all the people who'd died at the hands of his great and terrible powers. But tonight was different. Tonight Remy LeBeau was fighting Julien Bourdreaux, no mutant abilities, only their mettle. The two had been enemies since childhood, one always stealing from the other, beating the other, trying to out-earn, out-fight, out-smart each other. Their tumultuous history had all led up to this moment when they could face one another without the sway of other forces—not their clan, not their families, not Belladonna. She stood at the sidelines, wringing her hands. It couldn't be easy, watching the two men you loved fight each other to the death.

They stood facing each other, muscles tense, eyes fixated on the other's. Without words or referee they knew how this fight would be executed, when to start, how to end it. Just when the crowd thought the stare-down would never end, they were at each other's throats. The blows came quickly—Remy, a strong right hook to Julien's face—Julien, a kick to Remy's gut—Remy, rolling over the ground to get behind Julien, grabbing him from behind—Julien, elbowing him in the face—Remy, knocking Julien down with a kick to the back of the knee... Flesh broke, blood spilled, and all the while the crowd stared at the bloodsport in awe.

"Logan," Jean said hesitantly, "maybe we should stop this. It's barbaric."

"We're not one of them. We can't interfere."

"But...don't we have some kind of moral duty? As X-Men?"

"Nothing mutant about an old fashioned fight."

"And that makes it _right?_"

"Look, the Cajun's got some heavy demons in him, in case you haven't noticed. Coming here was the only way he could think of do right by them. So I'm going to let him do right by his people and himself, because I know about demons, Red. And they aren't as good of company as you."

Jean looked back at the fight, at a Gambit getting bloodier and more tired by the second. "I thought you didn't trust him," she said. "You're talking about him as if he's a friend."

"Of course I don't trust him. Whatever happened to the Morlocks, with Shaw and the Friends of Humanity—he's involved. But after this show of self-sacrifice, I'm willing to give him more of the benefit of the doubt."

The crowd suddenly cried out, a collective screech of shock and wonder.

"Logan!" Jean cried. "Gambit's down!"

Remy lay on the ground, panting as Julien stood over him.

"Y' surrender, T'ief?" Julien spat. "Or do I have t' finish y' off?"

"Julien no," Belladonna pleaded from the sidelines. "Don't kill him. Please."

"Shut up, Belle. M' gonna do what I—" Julien's jaw slamming shut cut off his words as Remy's foot smashed into his face.

He had feigned fatigue. He was just getting started. With a series of vicious kicks, flips, and punches with alacrity and dexterity worthy of a gymnast, Remy LeBeau pummeled Julien till he could no longer see or stand, the last leg of the fight, the final push. In truth, Julien was never going to be match for him in a fight. Only his arrogance allowed him to think so. The Ripper leader fell to a heap on the ground. Remy fell on him, grabbing his head in his arms in a choke hold ready to break his neck.

"Remy!" Belladonna screamed. "Stop it! Remy!'

Jean moved forward to use her powers, but Logan grabbed her arm, "No. He's got this."

"M' done wit' dis place, Julien," Remy panted into his ear. "I won. Now y' leave me out of everyt'ing dat's got to do wit' dis place, wit' de Guilds. D'accord? I want no part in it!"

Julien spat blood, staring at Remy through bruised and swollen eyes. "D'accord," he said. "On de Guild's honor."

Remy released him, stood up, and brushed himself off. He took off his shirt to wipe the blood from his face. As he walked away from the fight area, from Julien and Belladonna and all that had made up his childhood, a homely looking African American woman approached him. She wore a simple yellow sundress with a purple sash wrapped around her head to keep her cottony hair at bay.

"You go'n' leave wit'out sayin' goodbye, boy?"

"Tante Mattie...lookin' beautiful as usual." He was surprised to see her, this nanny who had raised him since boyhood, who had cooked for him, taught him to be polite to strangers and to respect women, and whipped him good with her switch when he went out of line. Time showed on her face, in the tired lines that betrayed her years and the rough lifestyle of being part of the Thieves' Guild.

"Y' did good, Remy," she said.

"How can y' say dat."

"'Cause y' didn' kill dat sonofabitch," she said matter-of-factly. She placed a hand on his bruised shoulder, "And everyone dis side o' de Mississippi knows he done deserved it. Y' made a choice, son. De right one. Dat t'ing dat happened two years 'go? Dat was no choice of yours. Dat blood ain't on y' hands."

Remy looked at his fingers as if he could see the blood of the dead, "I got other blood on m' hands, Tante."

"Den you'll have t'square wit' dat somehow. But not here, Remy. Don't dwell on what's happened here. Ain't no more dis place can do for y' or to y'. Y' understand, son?" She reached up and held his face, "Dere are bigger t'ings for y' to worry about. Out dere." She tipped her head toward Logan and Jean, who stood watching them.

Remy always had a strange feeling Tante Mattie knew things. She was a healer, possibly even a very powerful mutant, but her uncanny intuition made her seem prescient, which was impossible. The way she said that last sentence to him made him wonder. "What you mean, Tante?"

"Not'ing. Goodbye, Remy." As quietly as she came, she left, falling in with the rest of Rippers and Thieves who were beginning to disperse.

Belladonna was helping Julien to his feet. She began leading him away in the direction of the Ripper mansion, but she stopped, turning back to look at Remy.

He met her gaze.

"Y' really just go'n' leave again?" she called over to him.

"I don't belong here, chere."

She looked at the ground with those sad blue eyes. Then with a shake of her head, she turned away to tend to her brother.

Remy watched them go, his people, his past. Tante Mattie's words had given him some iota of relief, but they also seemed to be a harbinger of things to come, things he did not anticipate would be pleasant. He walked over to the X-Men, who watched him expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Remy," Jean said.

He could have laughed. He supposed some girls were just naturally full of more sugar than spice."What y' sorry for, p'tite? Dis mess my own doin'."

Jean shrugged uncertainly, "I don't know...all this looked sad for you. Seemed like the right thing to say."

"So, Gumbo?" Logan prompted. "What's it going to be?"

Remy looked him straight in the eye. After a few stubborn seconds, "Y' don't like me much, do you?"

"Not really."

"Den why y' went t'rough all dat fightin' just t' drag me back to Xavier?"

"Because, bub, I can empathize with whatever it is you're carrying around in there, but that don't mean I trust you anymore for it. Also, we need to know what you know. I came down here for the sole purpose of fetching you. So, what'll it be, Cajun."

Remy looked back toward the Ripper house once again. Belladonna and her brother were out of sight. Everyone had left. It was almost disconcerting, how everyone simply turned their backs, no words, no last exchanges, as if he had not once been the prince of the infamous Thieves' Guild.

"Den let's go," he said.


	12. Shot At Him As He At Me

**Hello loyal readers,** I apologize for the long delay. I was traveling for a bit but now I am back.

* * *

**Shot At Him as He At Me **

When the jet landed, its wheels hitting the floor of the hangar with a soft bump, Rogue was nudged awake. She had not dreamed this time, a relief, for she finally got a few hours of real sleep. She stretched out of her stiff limbs and yawned, straightening herself out as Lance did the final systems checks and shut down the jet.

"So was that a successful mission or a fail?" he asked.

"To be honest, Ah'm not sure." Rogue checked the local time. It was early evening in Bayville. "Ah don't really know what Ah expected to learn out there, actually."

"Do you really buy all those legends about this Saul?"

"Ah have to. Ah saw him, Lance. Ah talked to him."

As they discussed recent events, they walked out of the hangar and headed through the underground tunnels up to the mansion.

"But isn't it just a little bit _too_ much? I mean, legends, prophecies...it's all so...ridiculous."

"Who are we to doubt these things? Ah mean, look at us. We can do things that defy most of the laws of nature. But we're mutants, we're the result of nature. How can you explain us?"

"All I know is, you've got a lot of figuring out to do."

Rogue laughed dryly as she entered the code into the security lock outside the mansion's basement entrance. The door whooshed open then shut promptly behind them after they passed through. "Oh Alvers, always letting other people do the _real_ hard work."

"They call me Avalanche, not Einstein for a reason, girl."

"Typical guy—all punches, no brains."

"Hey! Don't you remember Algeria? _I_ figured out their next target."

"And exposed us to the very terrorist cell we were hunting."

"You mean stopped them from blowing up that mine. Saved 300 lives!"

Rogue was about to throw back another comment when she heard a voice in her head: _Welcome back, Rogue. I see you brought Mr. Alvers. Please meet me in my office. We have much to discuss._

_Okay, Professor. Comin' right up._

"The Professor knows we're back," Rogue said to Lance.

They walked into the mansion's foyer and headed up the main staircase, turning in the direction of Xavier's office.

"Does he know you're here?" Rogue asked, giving Lance a suspicious look.

"Of course! I talked to him this morning before going to find you."

"'Find' me?"

"Yeah...I wanted to see you."

The way his words came out, the weight in his tone... Something twisted in Rogue's stomach. She tried to remain casual, "That so?"

"Come on, Rogue, don't be like that."

"Like what."

"Like nothing happened."

She stopped in her tracks and looked him straight in the eye, "Nothing did happen, Lance."

He shook his head, taking a few steps toward her, "What, you made yourself forget Algeria? After we saved all those people? After we went to that bar and then..."

She did remember it. She remembered the gunfight and catching the terrorist militants. She remembered all the miners coming out, running into the arms of wives and girlfriends who cried from the relief that the men they loved were alive. She remembered a grateful couple hugging her with voluable thanks and praise, spouting off their support for mutant rights. And in all that happiness, she remembered how sad she had felt, how she did not have what they had. How alone she truly was, even among compatriots in X-Corps. She remembered the tiny shack bar near the U.S. military base they were temporarily stationed at. She remembered how five stiff drinks later Lance showed up to keep her company and he seemed so kind and truthful and dependable and good, seemed to have really grown in the last several months of working together ridding the world of scum. She remembered his soft touch and the comforting warmth of his body moving rhythmically against hers, the rough sand on her bare back, the moonlight and the _hush hush_ of Mediterranean waters lapping against the shore. She shook her head as if trying to rattle the memories away. She had done a very good job of trying to forget that night. The confusion of it was not pleasant.

"I just want to be honest," Lance said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I was totally okay with how you wanted things to be. But after you left, honestly, I...started to miss you. It surprised me."

"Lance," she said, "this isn't..."

He moved closer, "And you know, what you said, I don't agree anymore. I think it'd be great if we gave it a shot."

"Have you talked to Kitty at all—have you seen her since you came back?"

"Rogue, I know we sort of...bonded over our pasts. But that's it, it's the past. It doesn't have anything on us now."

She wondered if he was right. Maybe it was time to move on. She had no idea if she would ever see Remy again, if he even cared about her or thought about her anymore, if he ever had at all, despite saving her life in New York. Two years was a long time to never speak to someone, to know absolutely nothing about them. Two years that she spent in so many life-or-death situations with someone else, going through experiences that forged certain bonds that couldn't be denied. She thought it was all fellowship, that that one night had just been a spot of the very weakness she always tried to keep hidden, but maybe, possibly, it was could be more? Maybe it was time to let go.

She felt Lance draw so close, his breath warming her cheek. When his lips touched hers, she thought of pushing him away, but something held her back, a stubbornness to let him, to finally truly get over it all, a need to leap over the final hurdle. She remained still as his mouth pushed against hers, not sure how long she allowed him to kiss her before she finally pulled back back, a hand on his chest. She looked at him apologetically.

"Well, ain't dat a tender moment."

It couldn't be. Rogue turned toward the voice and felt the blood drain from her face. She blinked. An illusion—how could he be there—

Logan stood a few feet down the corridor, right outside Xavier's office. But that wasn't who Rogue was staring at. Her eyes were locked on Remy, Remy LeBeau in the flesh, right next to Logan as if it were the most normal thing in the world. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, red and black eyes staring at Rogue with an intensity she could not discern. Anger? Disappointment? Confusion? Disgust?

The next moment, he disapeared inside Xavier's office.

X

**A couple hours earlier—**

It was strange, to be among the X-Men again. Logan had let him shower and change into fresh clothes: X-sweats – training pants and T-shirt. It was weirder wearing the uniform. Remy knew the word had spread. As he sat in the basement's observation room waiting for the Professor, every few minutes one of the students would skitter past the corridor and take a peek at him through the observation window, believing they were being sneaky enough for him to think they were just strolling by. Was Rogue here? Had she heard he was back? Why hadn't she come to see him? He had no idea what he would say, what he would do, if he should just get out of there while he still could. They hadn't thought to handcuff him or even lock the door. What was he doing here? What was he hoping to accomplish?

He sighed and stood up, started to pace around the one table in the room. After a few minutes he decided to browse the small bookcase in the room. _Guess de X-Men want deir "guests" t' be well-read_, he thought. The selection was sparse, but of high caliber literature: some Thoreau, Hemingway, Poe, Tolstoy... Looked like something Hank McCoy would have picked out.

"Are you an avid reader, Mr. LeBeau?" The door opened and Ororo walked in with a tray. "I thought you might be hungry."

Remy looked at the sandwich and lemonade and felt the emptiness of his stomach. But he hesitated, because this was the one they called Storm, the one who, if he remembered correctly, was somehow related to Spyke. And when Remy had fled the Morlock tunnels, he had seen Evan in a losing fight. He might even have died, for all he knew.

"Please," she said, setting the tray on the table. "I made this for you."

Remy nodded and sat back down, grabbed the sandwich—which the weather lady had thought to load with multiple layers of slim cut meats and vegetables—and took an enormous bite.

"Who is your favorite author?" Ororo asked. She sat in the chair across the table from him, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She watched him with a steady gaze.

"Have t'say John Steinbeck," Remy said in between his chewing. He washed the food down with some lemonade. "One of de American greats."

"Tell me," Ororo said, "how do you find time to read, when you're so busy deceiving and murdering?"

The food stuck in his throat like a rock. He forced himself to swallow and set the rest of the sandwich down. He felt Ororo's hard stare boring a hole into him. Her composure was beginning to crumble, the once-blank expression of her face distorting into something pained and accusatory.

"Do you remember my nephew, Mr. LeBeau," she said in a low tone. "His name is Evan." When he didn't speak, she raised her voice, "I asked you a question!_"_

"Yes," he said, "yes. I remember Spyke."

"Did you see?" Ororo pressed. "Did you watch as they tore him up? Left him for dead?"

"No, I didn't..." Remy noticed the hair on his arms were standing on end. He felt a slightly tingling in the room, like a dramatic increase in static electricity. The air in the room began to feel thick and moist.

Ororo's gaze never left him. "Do you even care, Mr. LeBeau?"

"What do y' want me t' say?" he asked.

"Tell me if you care about what you've done, how much pain you've caused!"

"M' human, just as much as you, mon ami."

"I am not your friend. None of us are," Ororo snapped. She stood suddenly and moved as if to approach him, maybe even attack him, but seemed to change her mind, as if something snapped in her head. Instead she walked up to the observation window, staring out into the corridor. "I am usually more composed. I have to be, because of the nature of my powers, the destruction I could cause. And unlike some, I cannot cope with blood on my hands." As the electricity left the air and the moisture receded, she turned to look at him, "I apologize for leaping to conclusions, Mr. LeBeau. You deserve to have your say."

Remy ran a hand through his hair and stared at his plate. "How...how is Evan?" he asked.

"Fighting for his life," Ororo said, eyes watery. "He's too young, Gambit, do you understand that? His parents are wrought with worry. Now, I don't know what your role was in all this, but if you can help us, Remy LeBeau, you _must. _Do you understand me? Do you?"

He wished he could tell her how sorry he was, how none of it was supposed to be like this. But he only said, "Yes, I understand."

"Ororo?" Charles Xavier entered at that moment with Logan behind him. "What is going on here?"

"Did the Cajun do something to you?" Logan demanded, shooting Remy a suspicious frown.

"No," she said, "I just wanted to have a few words." With a respectful nod, she left.

Logan settled down where Ororo had sat, one leg crossed over the other in an L, an arm slung over the other chair, and trained his eyes on Remy as though he were a wild animal that needed constant watch.

Xavier wheeled himself to the other side of the table. "Thank you for waiting, Mr. LeBeau," he said.

"M' not promisin' t' be dat helpful, monsieur. I don't know as much as y' t'ink I do."

"That is not a problem for me," Xavier said. "I did not intend for this to be a normal interrogation."

"Beg y' pardon?" Remy did not like the sound of this.

The Professor closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. "I'm sorry," he said. "This will be less unpleasant if you don't resist."

"Resist what—aggh!" When Xavier entered his mind, it felt like someone breaking through a door you were trying to hold shut. Remy was rattled in the strangest of ways: psychically. Xavier had gained entrance far quicker than Jean Grey had, and though it hurt less when the telepath broke through his natural defenses, the knowledge that he was poking around in there gave Remy greater incentive to resist.

_Don't fight me, Gambit,_ Xavier said from within his mind. _I won't hurt you, unless I have to._

"What's dat s'posed t' mean?" Remy said through gritted teeth. He couldn't give up. He couldn't let Xavier see everything that was in his mind. Gripping the edge of the table and his chair, he strained to force the psychic out, but he was exhausting himself more than anything.

_We need information, and I will do what is necessary to find it. With or without your consent._

"So much for de et'ical X-Men!"

_I'm not above drastic measures. _

And then Xavier saw it all, Remy's memories as far back as he thought relevant: two years ago, Remy leaving the Institute and the bittersweet memory of a girl with white stripes in her hair; his powers going out of control and the explosion in New Orleans killing Rippers and Thieves; a sobbing blond woman, the dead Bourdreaux's daughter, Belladonna; Remy's distraught flight from the city, full of shame, guilt, remorse, and almost worst of all, panic at powers he no longer understood; a pale-skinned mutant finding him in a bar, drinking away his demons—Nathaniel Essex, a geneticist, who offered a cure and a great debt; a laboratory in Seattle, treatments to subdue Remy's mutation, an ampule full of serum that came with a price; stealing for him, doing his dirty work; Essex's words—gene limits, superior mutants—rid the dirty genes—cleaning the x-gene pool—inferior Morlocks; Lorna Danes screaming, Lorna Danes gone mad; Remy fighting Rogue on the roof of the Plaza hotel, diving after her to save her life, bandaging her head wound, laying his trench coat over her; fleeing, he had wanted to flee, but the mad Lorna Danes finding him for their next assignment; meeting the Marauders, forced to lead them through the tunnels—the dread of what might happen, a crippling helplessness to stop it; the killing, the bloodsheld, the Morlocks dying and dying; his panic and horror, so much horror; trying to stop the Marauders but the large one, Scalphunter, beating him and beating him; grabbing the little girl, the only one he could save; watching the X-Men, the horror, the horror, the guilt and self-hate; running and running; back to Seattle, to Essex, for the serum, for his release from bondage; back to New Orleans and the run-in with Jean and Logan...

When Xavier pulled out of his mind, Remy felt shaken and drained, breaths coming in deep gasps. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead. He was angry at the intrusion and wanted to scream at the venerable professor, but he couldn't deny that he felt lighter. A weight had been lifted. He had carried around those memories for so long, never sharing them with anyone, and now it was out. The burden became inchmeal less suffocating.

"What happened?" Logan demanded. "What'd you see?"

Xavier was rubbing his temples, "They kept him in the dark. He doesn't know anything. Logan, find everything you can about a Doctor Nathaniel Essex based in Seattle."

"Wait—what about the Morlocks. Did he do it or not?"

Xavier shook his head, "We can trust him, Logan. He wasn't involved. Please, we must find Essex."

With a chary look at the Cajun, Logan nodded and left the room.

Remy stayed quiet in his chair, watching the Professor think and rub his head. "Why'd y' lie f' me?" he asked after a few seconds. "I had a hand in what happened t' dose people, just as much as de actual killers."

Xavier sighed the sigh of a man before a deeply troubled friend. He looked Remy straight in the eye, steady and serious, "They would have found the Morlocks one way or another without you. You just saved them time."

"I could've gone t' warn 'em."

"They would not have let you go. And you didn't know what they were going to do."

"But I was suspicious."

"We cannot obsess over what we could have done. Those are the thoughts that drive men mad."

"Y' just go'n' keep m' dark secret? Why would you do dat f' me?"

"Because I know the truth. I have looked into your psyche, into those parts you hate most about yourself, and you, Remy LeBeau, are a good man."

Remy felt a strange tingling in his nose, a burning behind his eyes. Dieu, was he crying? To hear those words from one of the most respected men in the world, from the bastion of hope for both mutants and regular humans, even when he didn't even know the guy all that well... he believed him. _I'm good. I'm good_. He quickly blinked away the seeds of tears and swallowed the emotion, quickly gaining composure.

"I will not tell anyone," Xavier said. "I will leave that to you, when you are ready. Sooner or later, these things have a way of coming out. But at least this way, you will have some control over how and when."

"What...y' keepin' me here?"

"You are not a prisoner. But I think you have something to consider: where will you go? Certainly not back to New Orleans or Seattle."

"I got places tucked away."

"My school is a sanctuary for mutants," Xavier said. "All mutants. And it just so happens that we have cleared out the pool house and turned it into a guest room. Think about it. I have a feeling you can be of much help here still. Now more than ever we could use someone of your skill and experience."

Remy watched the Professor leave, not knowing what to do. Xavier was right. He had nowhere to go, no more reason to run. He still didn't understand why the Professor was keeping his secret, what he had to gain, what angle he was playing... But that was just it, wasn't it: Xavier was not trying to twist any advantage of the situation—except maybe get an extra member to his team of do-gooders. Xavier didn't have an angle. He was just being...

"A good man," Remy said out loud.

He growled under his breath and stood up, running a hand through his hair. How could he stay here, lying to people who already didn't trust him. The Professor was noble and kind, but only him helping to bear the burden would not be enough when surrounded by so many trusting and clueless students—would it? Remy was surprised Xavier would allow someone like him around them.

And what would _she_ think, once she showed up? Where had she been? Did she already know he was here? He tried not to think about it, but thoughts of Rogue forced their way to the forefront of his mind. When they had fought, when they had fallen, when she had nestled against him—he remembered their closeness, the way she looked at him... Maybe it wasn't over for her the way he always thought it would be. Maybe she didn't completely stop caring, even after two years, even after he left, abandoned her despite a promise to return, and never called or even sent a message all because of a shame and self-repugnance that grew stronger the longer he stayed away.

He sat back down and stared at the wall, trying to decide what to do.

X

Scott was confused. He wondered what was wrong with her. She was quiet and reserved with her nose buried in a copy of _Little Women_, clearly trying to avoid something. He nudged her lightly with a small smile. She looked up briefly, smiled back, then returned to staring into her book. She had not turned a page for at least ten minutes.

"Jean?"

"What's up, Scott?"

"Are you okay?"

She laughed lightly, "What do you mean?"

"You seem, I don't know, distant."

"Everything is fine," she assured him. She was lying. She felt guilty. The trip to New Orleans had stirred up some strange things regarding Logan and she preferred not to think about them. Obviously, she had not done a good job of hiding her awkward feelings.

They were lounging in the library on the lazy summer afternoon, Scott browsing through a course catalogue for New York University. "Are you sure?" he prodded.

Jean put down her book, deciding to turn it around on him, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

"Actually—yeah. I was looking through courses to take this semester...and I started thinking...maybe I should take a year off from NYU."

"What? Scott...why would you do that? You're already halfway through. And school starts again in a few weeks."

"Why's that so crazy? You're putting a pause on school too."

"That's because I'm studying under Hank and the Professor, premier experts on genetics. You know Stanford gave me that research grant."

"Maybe I feel that I'm needed here," Scott said with a sigh. "Going away seems selfish now."

Jean felt for him. She reached over and draped an arm over his shoulders, rested her head against his chin. "It's not being selfish, Scott, you have to take care of your future too. We all have to."

"But isn't all this—" he waved his hand around the room as if all the others were there with them, "—all about being a team? And we're in trouble now. Things are worse than ever. You've seen the news."

"All the more reason to keep living as normal lives as we can. If you leave college, that's just another mutant that's abandoned their education. We can't let them win, even on the things that aren't life-or-death."

"I don't know, Jean. I have a feeling things are going to get worse. Like there's this...storm coming. I mean...what the heck.." He sat forward abruptly, staring out the window. "What's he doing?"

Jean followed his gaze outside to the yard, where a disgruntled looking Cajun had just walked past. "Gambit?" As Scott stood up to confront him, she grabbed his arm, "Scott, the Professor said he would be here for a bit."

"Yeah, sure. But he didn't say anything about not being supervised."

"Come on, Scott, he's not going to do anything."

"How do you know?"

"Because—because he's not as bad as everybody thinks!" Jean struggled to find an explanation for why she trusted Remy LeBeau.

"He's a stranger in _our_ home, Jean. Shouldn't we at least keep tabs on him?"

"The Professor wouldn't let him wander around if he thought it wasn't safe."

"Better safe than sorry. The guy's sketchy—where's he been the last two years? Maybe he wasn't involved in the Morlock killing like the Professor said, but I say something stinks here."

"Look, I'm the telepath," Jean said firmly, "so you should trust my judgment."

Scott nodded, "Sure thing. But I want to see what he's up to anyway." And he marched out of the library.

"Wait!" Jean followed him outside through the library's sliding door, across the backyard, and to the pool area.

Gambit stood outside the pool house, whose door was slightly ajar, in X-Men training sweats peering at it with his hands in his pockets.

Scott approached with purpose, but as he drew within five feet of Remy, stopped awkwardly and seemed to not know how to hold himself. He crossed his arms, let them fall to his side, then crossed them ahead. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Yea, homme?"

"What are you doing here, Gambit."

"What's it look like, mon frere? Checkin' out de real estate."

Scott's eyebrows furrowed behind his rose quartz glasses, "What—you're moving in to the poolhouse?"

Remy shrugged, "The Prof basically ordered me to. Still tryin' t' decide, t' be honest." He then noticed Jean on the other side of him, "Bonjour, madamoiselle."

"Hello, Remy."

"Hey...'bout what happened in N'Awlins... M' sorry f'... y'know."

Jean waved her hand and shook her head, "Don't worry about it."

"What?" Scott demanded. "Did he do something to you?"

"No, Scott, will you just calm down?"

"Calm down? This _thief_ and _mercenary—_"

"Ex-mercenary," Remy chimed in.

"—is planning on moving in with us! Who knows what he's up to. Where's Logan? He can't possibly be okay with this."

At the mention of the name, Jean felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Fine. I'll call him." She didn't know why she volunteered to do that. The last thing she wanted was to talk to Logan, let alone be inside his mind, be connected in that way. She kept reminding herself that what happened—what she thought had happened—in New Orleans was just a figment of her imagination, the product of a girl's foolishness and vanity.

_Logan. Logan?_

After a few seconds, _Jean? What's the matter._

_ Nothing... just, there's a situation at the poolhouse. Scott and Gambit._

_ Typical._ Jean could almost hear the sigh in his thoughts. _I'll be there in a minute. Gotta talk to Gumbo anyway._

When she broke the psychic connection, she felt a strange pang, a tingling in the bottom of her stomach, ever so faint. There was an excitement to this, whatever it was. Jean Grey never did anything bad, never made the wrong choices. Maybe this was what it was like to not be Miss Perfect, as Rogue used to call her. To not have that pressure. Maybe this was what it was like to be Rogue, who could just pick up and leave her life behind, make a new one for herself...

While she was lost in reverie, Gambit and Scott had taken their argument inside the poolhouse. The Cajun seemed to enjoy irritating Scott with glibness.

"And what'd you do in Seattle?" Scott was inquiring, arms still crossed.

Remy was busy surveying the interior of the pool house. In the main room reposed a table with three chairs at the foot of a full-sized bed. An entire wall was glass, with curtains to pull over it. One doorway led to a full bathroom, while the other went outside to the pool's sunning patio right outside the mansion's kitchen. The room was sparsley decorated but retained a simple elegance with its calming blue walls lit by the early evening sunlight streaming in, and a single painting hanging on the wall above the bed: _Nighthawks_ by Edward Hopper.

"Always liked dat time period," Remy said, gazing at the painting.

"What?" Scott frowned at him.

"1940s. People wore hats. Y' like hats, Cyke?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Didn't you hear my question?" Scott was beginning to lose patience.

"Guess y' not a fan o' Edward Hopper, neh?"

"Who? Look, whatever, why were you in Seattle?"

"Didn't de Prof tell y'."

"He said you were dealing with something about your powers. I want to know what. Now."  
"Why it matter t' y'?"

"Because if your powers—and you—are dangerous, we deserve to know. And what did you do to Jean in New Orleans?"

Remy sighed and sat down on the bed, bounced a couple times. Scott gawked at him in disbelief. The Cajun was actually testing the mattress in the middle of a serious conversation. "Y' know what, Cyclops, I got some advice f' y'," he finally said.

Scott threw up his hands in exasperation, "Seriously?"

"Oui. Y' gotta know who y' real enemies are. M' not one of 'em. In fact, I actually like y', professionally. Y' personality needs a lil' calibration, but I can tell what kinda guy y' are by de way everybody here looks up t' y. 'Cept right now y' ain't bein' a good role model." Remy tipped his head toward the window.

A few of the students—Jubilee, Rahn, Roberto, and Amara—were sitting on the patio with lemonade, snacks, and cards, no longer focused on their game. Their eyes were glued to the pool house, on Scott yelling at Xavier's new guest. Logan came out that moment, followed the kids' gazes. He marched up to the pool house where Jean stood outside, watching the interaction inside and holding her head like she had a headache.

"Logan—"

He nodded to acknowledge her then looked through the window glass, caught Remy's eye, pointed at him, and gestured for him to follow. Then he walked back to the patio, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and waited.

"Guess dat's m' cue t' go, Cyke," Remy said. He patted Scott on the shoulder, who looked at him baffled. "Remember what I said, d'accord? It'll help wit' de blood pressure." Trying not to chuckle to himself, he walked out to meet Logan. He enjoyed messing with Scott, the epitome of the Nice Guy—the homme with a life all planned out nice and neat, with the girl, the house, the white picket fence and the dog—the thing he would never be.

"The Professor wants to talk," Logan said. "Let's go."

As Remy followed Logan inside, "What about, mon frere? I saw him not too long ago."

"New developments. I got something on your old friend Essex."

"Not in Seattle. He would've moved on by now."

"You're right about that, bub. He's in New York."

A familiar anger began to fester in Remy's chest. It felt like heartburn. "Why?"

"That's what we're going to find out. Kitty cracked a CD Scott knicked from an old lab—turns out that lab was his too. He's clearly moving forward with some plans. And I got a feeling he ain't done with you, bub."

They hurried up the west wing steps to the second floor of the mansion.

"Why y' tellin' me all dis?" Remy asked. "Not de way dey did it, 'cause dey sure didn't trust me either."

Logan stopped and turned around, looking him straight in the eye, "That ain't how we run things here. Now Xavier may have good reasons to trust you, but I'll be watching. So don't go around with illusions of camaraderie." He continued walking, turned the next corner.

_Don't worry, homme_, Remy thought. He wasn't entertaining any ideas that the X-Men had accepted him with open arms. He hooked around the corner and two things came into his vision at once: Logan reaching for the door to Xavier's office, and two figures on the other end of the hall, in some sort of lackluster embrace.

Then he saw her, auburn hair, dove feathers of white along the side of her face. Lips locked with that mutant's who was once a member of the Brotherhood, a long time ago, a different life it seemed, especially now when it was apparent to him that things had changed, that the people here had moved on while he was gone. That he had been wrong about her.

"Well, ain't dat a tender moment," he said. The words had come out without thought, a reflexive reaction of how he dealt with duress. Show no vulnerability. Wear the mask. Block it off. Stop caring. It doesn't matter as much as it feels like it does. Two years was enough to get over someone.

He tore his eyes from her and brushed past Logan to enter the office.

"Hello again," the Professor said from behind his desk. He gestured for him to sit down. The girl who could walk through walls was already there. "I see you've decided to stay."

"Not so sure anymore, Prof." Remy did not feel like sitting. Instead he moved to the window and leaned against the wall. The window itself was open to let a breeze in. Outside loomed a large oak tree, easy escape if necessary. He had a feeling he may need it.

Kitty Pryde waved at him, "Hi. Long time no see."

"Bonjour, Kit-Kat. Ça va?"

She smiled sheepishly, eyes turning to the door as Rogue and Lance entered behind Logan.

Rogue pushed past the two men ahead of her, going directly up to the Professor's desk, "What's he doin' here?" Her voice was almost shrill, a finger pointing at the new arrival.

"Rogue, please, sit down. We have a lot to discuss."

She drew a sharp breath and crossed her arms, "Ah don't understand, Professor. Why didn't anyone tell me? Ah..." Her eyes glanced at him for the briefest of seconds. "Ah deserved to know."

"M' right here, chere," Remy said. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin. Every instinct told him to jump out the window and shimmy out of the tree, but the slow and certain sting of watching Rogue be appalled by his presence was too captivating. "Y' don' have t' talk about me in de t'ird person."

Her eyes were wide when she looked at him, lusciously green as he remembered, but harder, more closed off, no longer open for him. He couldn't read the expression in them for she kept her face deadpanned. Two years in X-Corps, as Jean had told him. She certainly did have more control over herself. She was not the same, with those fists clenched at her sides, barely-noticeable beads of perspiration on her forehead. Was this the reaction he provoked in her? Did she hate seeing him so much? Guess he couldn't blame her, after what he had done.

"Rogue, everything will be explained. Please, sit."

She sat down next to Kitty and stiffly crossed her legs, as if being seated there also made her uncomfortable. When Kitty asked if she was feeling okay, she abruptly shook her head and didn't answer. Remy noticed Lance kept looking at Rogue and Kitty kept looking at Lance.

_Dieu,_ he thought. _What melodrama dis is..._

Xavier nodded toward Logan to close the door. He clasped his hands together, "Now, I know Remy's presence may be surprising to some of you... but I have extended an invitation to him to stay and continue helping us. We've learned a few things since yesterday, and that is what we're here to discuss..."

X

Her life was a joke. The thought filled her mind as she listened to the conversation in the Professor's office and watched Remy LeBeau. One big cosmic joke. All of her training, all of the effort she had gone through to become stronger—it had all crumbled the moment she saw him again. She wasn't proud of the way she burst into Xavier's office and demanded to know what was going out, broadcasting her panic for everyone to see. And to top it off, he had magically appeared in the mansion just in time to see that moment with Lance, which made things worse. How did this happen? Why was the universe trying to torture her? What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Was he even still capable of feeling? He wouldn't look at her, not even once turning his head in her direction for the entire hour of the meeting.

In that time she had given her report on her findings in Mongolia and listened to Logan recount the New Orleans debacle. She had watched Remy closely as Logan spoke about being held hostage by the Rippers, about Remy giving himself up to atone for what he'd done two years ago... He barely moved as Logan spoke, staring at the floor, bangs falling over his eyes that he would have to brush aside every few minutes. Annoyingly, she felt a pang at the thought of him going through all of that alone. And a sharp jealousy at the irony that Jean Grey, of all people, had been there this time to help him get through it. But despite her concern for him, she couldn't help feeling incredibly suspicious. Was Remy LeBeau really so self-sacrificing? The Thief she remembered would not have succumbed to death—certainly not slavery to the Bourdreauxs. But maybe that simply proved how she did not know him anymore.

The Professor said he had not participated in the Morlock massacre, even though Logan found one of his cards in the sewers. Rogue could tell Logan didn't completely buy it, and neither did she. There was more that the Professor intentionally withheld from them. The question was, what. It was all frustratingly maddening. She couldn't think about it anymore, giving her full attention back to the conversation. Logan had informed them that a Doctor Nathaniel Essex had flown from Seattle to LaGuardia under the cover of Nathan Milbury. This Essex was currently their main person of interest.

Kitty began speaking. Her fingers glided around the screen of her iPad to pull up a folder, "I had some help from a classmate at MIT to crack the disc Scott brought back from that lab and the documents indicate the lab belonged to Essex. And like, at first I thought it was just notes and test reports from his sick experiments but there was more than that. I think we need to give them to Hank to look at, because they look like the molecular diagrams of some kind of...bacteria or virus or something that seems to be in development. And then in the same folder there were a bunch of documents about Guy Spears."

"Guy Spears?" Logan said. "Now why does that name sound familiar."

Kitty nodded energetically, "Right? Because a few years ago, Evan got sick from his energy drink! I looked up a bunch of information. Back then it was called Power8. But the Professor talked to him and told him how the drink had negative effects on mutants. Apparently he stopped producing Power8 and is now making something called Revive. But here's a horrible twist: there have been news reports in the past few weeks about kids at middle schools and high schools getting sick—but only the schools where Revive has conducted marketing campaigns or installed Revive vending machines."

"This is most troubling, Kitty," the Professor said. "We must determine whether Essex has anything to do with Guy Spears. Most likely he is oblivious to what is happening."

"Or he's doing it intentionally," Logan said. "We'll have to go to his factory in Bayville."

Kitty held up the tablet for them to see, "And then just when I thought things couldn't get creepier, I found these."

"Sorry, p'tite," Remy said from the window, "but de icons be too small f' some of us t' see, neh?"

"They're files of us!" Kitty exclaimed. "Of all the X-Men! _Detailed_ files, documents about our lives that go waaay back...god, I mean, like, the one about me has photographs and goes all the way back to the hospital I was born at, my medical history, my progress reports from computer camp—"

Lance raised an eyebrow, "You went to computer camp?"

"Oh my God, Lance, _that's_ what you focus on?" Kitty frowned at him.

"What? I was just asking—"

"Yeah well maybe you shouldn't if you don't have something constructive to—"

"Hey I'm here for the same reason everyone else is—"

"Why _are_ you even here? Why did you even come to the Xavier Institute?"

Logan growled in exasperation. "Enough!" he snapped. "You two still in high school?

Kitty cleared her throat, "As I was saying... Essex clearly knows who each and every one of us is. So we're already exposed. And there was more, I'm no expert on genetics, but from the files I could crack Essex was doing experiments to find something he called the 'gene limit'."

Rogue had remained quiet the whole time, listening carefully. Finally she asked, "What's a gene limit."

Kitty turned to the Professor, who explained, "From what I could discern, Essex's notion of a 'gene limit' pertains to pushing a mutant's abilities to the full potential of their powers, and then going beyond that point. He manipulated their DNA in ways I have never seen before. His knowledge may even surpass that of the world's top geneticists."

"Even you, Professor?" Rogue asked.

"Yes, even me. My primary concern is that he is conducting his research without ethical restraint. He has maniuplated the building blocks of life in so many mutants and distorted their DNA into irreparable, truly _inhuman_ strands. He destroys his subjects in his search for knowledge. And we have no idea why."

"I know why."

Everyone turned to look at Remy.

"Dis man is de purest kind of scientist," he said. "He doesn't care 'bout anyt'ing else but results. He has no end game 'cept t' find dis 'gene limit'."

"Then what's he plan to do once he does?" Logan asked dubiously.

"He'll make de perfect mutant."

A stillness fell upon the room. The words were simple yet carried the most eerie of implications. Creating a mutant. Playing god through twisted experiments that destroyed bodies and caused so much pain and death.

"And de Morlocks, dey were de least perfect, in his eyes," Remy continued. "So he had t' get rid of 'em."

"This is sick," Kitty groaned. She looked back at her iPad and seemed to remember something. "Uh, guys," she winced, "I did notice one other really weird thing."

"What was it?" the Professor asked.

"So he kept files on all of us right, all of them pretty standard with photographs and documents of about 20 to 30 pages. But then I found a file that was huge—hundreds of photos, hundreds of pages of even more detailed personal, medical, and academic history... It looked like Essex was just _obsessed—_"

"Spill it, Half Pint," Logan said. "Whose file was this."

Kitty's eyes landed on the only other female in the room, "Rogue's."

All eyes fell on Rogue. For the first time in the whole meeting, Remy looked straight at her. Her breath caught and her eyes wandered to Kitty's tablet. She grabbed it, opening the file with her name on it. The folder was filled with hundreds of photos of her from childhood onward, even some from her time in X-Corps, along with documents detailing her physical measurements, blood type, food preferences, hemoglobin count, gynecological visits' test results... Essex had gone into every doctor's visit, foster system documents, every country she had ever visited, painstakingly collected so much information about her, knew things she didn't even know herself. She felt her stomach crawling with the worms of nausea.

"You feeling okay?" Lance asked. "You just got really pale."

"It was him," Remy suddenly said.

Lance frowned, "What was who?"

"De person who tried t' kidnap Rogue two years ago, de one who hired Theodore Farrat—it was Essex." He stared at her in a way that made her feel they were thinking the same thing. A warmth spread from her stomach, the nausea subsiding. Running into the sewers to escape Farrat's men, hiding with the Morlocks, their first real touch, hungry lips, yearning skin...

Logan nodded in agreement with Remy's theory, "And it was probably Essex too who was trying to take the comatose X-Men. He saw the perfect opportunity to get a bunch of new mutants to experiment on without the hassle of fighting for it. Good catch, Gumbo."

"Merci."

Rogue abruptly stood up, tossing Kitty's tablet onto the couch, "That's just great. Now can we stop talkin' about this and _do_ somethin'? There are photos of me right out of the shower here!"

"At least dey weren't _in_ de shower, non?" Remy smirked.

His words felt like a slap to the face, almost disrespectul, intentionally blasé to be hurtful. _This_ was how he chose to acknowledge her? She had no idea what was happening, but she was angry. "Are ya trying to be an asshole?" she threw back.

"Calm down, chere. Now not de time t' lose our cool."

"And since when did you start advising the X-Men?"

"Since I got de most kind invitation from de good Professor here."

Xavier held up his hands and gestured for her to sit back down, "Please, Rogue. I have one more thing we need to discuss before we can come up with an actionable plan: my findings in Chicago. I managed to meet with Bolivar Trask."

Out of respect for this man who was the closest thing she had to a father, she wanted to stay. But she felt suffocated being in the same room as Remy, with him looking at her, watching her, acting nothing like the Remy she had known two years ago. Maybe two years really was too much time to have passed. Maybe the gulf between them was too irrevocably wide.

"Ah'm sorry," she said in a distressed breath. "Ah just can't be in here right now." The door shut loudly behind her as she left.

X

She hated running. She never understood how or why some people could do it so regularly or for such long distances. But as her feet pounded against the earth, her breath coming in steady rhythms, muscles working to keep the locomotion of her body, she began to feel more relaxed. After 30 minutes of it however, she had had enough. Still, the running hadn't gone without some sort of gain: it had been 30 minutes of successfully thinking about nothing. She slowed her run to a languid walk as she headed back to the mansion. She came up on the side near the pool.

The sun had set and the sounds of dinner preparation drifted from the kitchen. From where she stood she could see Ororo stirring something on the stove and Roberto and Jamie chopping vegetables. Jubilee and Kitty were setting the table. They seemed like such a family, one she had once been a part of. She didn't feel so part of it now, no matter how much she knew she was.

"What are you doing."

Startled, Rogue turned to the source of the voice. Bobby sat at the edge of the pool in swimming trunks, smoking a cigarette. "Hey."

He took a final drag then flicked the stub to the grass, not bothering to put it out. "So I heard about your stalker."

"What?"

"Nathaniel Essex. That's messed up."

"Oh...yeah. Yeah it is."

Bobby stood and walked over to her, "Look, Rogue, all that stuff I said... I meant it at the time."

She let out a dry laugh of disbelief, "Wow, thanks."

"Whaddaya want me to do? I did mean it. I was angry as hell. But then I felt bad. I shouldn't've blamed you. Now Gambit's here and I can't believe it."

Rogue looked at the ground, "Me neither."

"But he'll know how to find Lorna."

"Bobby, that's not what he's here."

"Then why the hell is he here? Why'd the Professor let a killer come live with us?"

"He's not a killer—"

"How do you know? Just because the Professor said so? Come on, Rogue, I thought you'd've learned to sniff out lies."

She sighed, crossed her arms, "Look, Bobby, Ah know you're more hot-headed these days, but you've literally got to cool it. You can't go around calling Xavier a liar."

"Man, whatever," Bobby threw his hands up in the air. "Nobody listens!" He stalked off angrily.

"Bobby wait!" Rogue called out. She didn't understand it. What had happened between him and Lorna Danes for him to become so mercurial? He was irascible and angry, angry in a way she never thought Bobby Drake would ever be. It came from deep inside, a dark place; it shaped him. She couldn't believe he was letting the anger fly around helter skelter, irritate everyone around him, isolating himself from his friends. He just wasn't as good as hiding it as she was. He wasn't a pretender.

"Don't take it personally, chere."

She turned around slowly, wondering how it was Remy had such a knack for appearing randomly everywhere. He stood in the doorway to the poolhouse, leaning against the frame and shuffling a deck of cards. He wore only a pair of dark sweatpants, shirtless. She stared at the smoothness of his chest, the hard muscles of his abdomen.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms, "What are you doing there?"

"My new place. Like it?"

Her eyes widened, "You're staying? Indefinitely?"

"Don't have t' sound so horrified, chere."

"I didn't mean—that's not what—.whatever." She was sputtering like a besotted school girl. It was unbecoming, so she shut her mouth and let the sentence hang.

Remy had stepped away from the poolhouse, was walking toward her. She noticed the ripples of his arms and pecs as he moved, cleared her throat again. He stopped right in front of her. "So," he said.

That quivering feeling returned to her stomach, trickled down her thighs. She kept her voice level, "So what?"

"You an' dat earthquake boy, huh." He continued to shuffle the cards, in-between each other, over each other, flipping them with expert dexterity.

"Who—Lance?" Rogue frowned, wondering what it was Remy was thinking. Then she recalled the ill-timed, unwarranted kiss. "It's not—"

"S'ok, chere. Y' don't have t' explain. Not like we toget'er or anyt'ing."

However much true, the words stung. Rogue bit her lip, feeling a swell of frustration rising in her throat like bile, frustration and a dash of anger. What explanation did she owe him anyway? But it was _Remy_. God, what was happening—this wasn't how they were supposed to be with each other. "Lance is kind," she heard herself saying. "And he's reliable when you need him, which is not what I can say about a lot of people."

A card fell loose from Remy's stack as he momentarily lost his rhythm. It cut through the air from the momentum of an interrupted shuffle and landed in the pool. A Queen of Hearts. They both stared at it, seeing something only they could. He stepped away from her and went to crouch at the edge of the pool. He stared at the floating card, watched the water seep into the thin cardboard. Bangs fell over his eyes.

He wanted to tell her what he thought of Lance Alvers, a mediocre hand for hire, no art to him, a regular Joe—not good enough for someone as seraphic as her. And that certainly meant Remy LeBeau wasn't good enough for her either, Le Diable Blanc, thief, mercenary, mass-murderer.

"What are you really doing here, Remy?"

"Same reason you are."

"And what's that?"

"Lend a helpin' hand. Haven't y'heard, chere? I got inside information. M' one o' de bad guys."

"Stop that."

"Quoi?"

"Acting."

"Am I now." He decided he wanted her to leave. Everything would be easier if she wasn't around to remind him of what he'd lost. Suddenly Jean's diatribe in the New Orleans restaurant popped back to mind. Had she just not known what she was talking about, spewing all that stuff about Rogue? _She would never admit it, but she misses you. A lot.—That's how affected she was by _you_...all these walls around herself...invulnerable...but she's not._

No. Since when did Rogue confide in Jean Grey? They were polar opposites back then, unable to really relate to each other. He stood up to leave—enough confrontation and conspiracy for one night—and felt her hand grab his arm, twist him around to face her. Merde, Rogue had more brass than he remembered.

"Why didn't you come back?" she demanded, eyes bright with command.

Their faces were inches apart. He could almost feel the heat of her body on his skin. "What's it matter now," he said hoarsely.

"It matters."

"Does it, chere? Looks like y' moved on nice on y' own."

She released his arm, eyes drifting down to focus on his nose, his lips. "It's not... it's not like that," she said softly.

"Non? Don't tell me y' spent de last two years waitin' on me?" When she said nothing to contest his words, he felt the deadweight of dismay form in the bottom of his stomach, then a flash of anger that snuffed out as quickly as it came. He had no right to be angry. It was just the truth. She and another, probably the earthquake guy. The image of them in a heated embrace, his mouth on her, his hands... It made his stomach churn, and he had a great urge to punch Lance Alvers in the face. "'Course y' didn't. Not when y' could finally touch after all dat time, hein? Gotta seize de moments as dey come."

Rogue felt the slow burn of tears behind her eyes. She drew a sharp breath to gain composure. Remy did not see. He had already turned and begun walking back to the pool house, throwing over his shoulder, "G'night, chere. Nice catchin' up."

She turned and hurried into the mansion, tears blurring her vision. It was wrong, it was all wrong. One mistake, one weak moment, and he judged her for it. The gall. How dare he, when he had been the one to desert her when he had promised to come back, as if all they had been through meant nothing. But then again, she knew it would be a mistake when she was letting it happen, telling Lance to touch her, kiss her, make her forget her woes.

As she came up the main living room, she heard snippets of the evening newscast. _"...voting on the Mutant Registration Act ended just minutes ago...say that the bill passed in the House of Representatives...must pass in the Senate...if the President does not veto..." _

She stopped in the doorway, unable to pull herself away. This landmark legislation of bigotry and hate was on its way to becoming the law of the land. Her night couldn't possibly get worse. The reporter named Trish Tilby seemed morose as she delivered the news, _"Though it comes as little surprise that the Mutant Registration Act passed in the House, predictions about its fate in the Senate are much less certain. Cameron Jones joins us from Washington D.C. with reactions from the ground. Cameron, how's it looking out there?"_

The screen filled with a scene from outside the congressional buildings in the nation's capital. A crowd bustled around a square-jawed reporter as he spoke,_"Good evening, Trish. There's definitely a lot of restless energy out jere. On one side we have supporters of the bill while on the opposite, the pro-mutant-rights lobby. People are nervous and worried on both sides. As you can see here, a squadron of riot police have gathered. Tensions are running high and we're hoping a fight doesn't break out..."_

"Rogue?" Kitty sat up from her prostrated position on the couch. "Are you crying?"

Shit, Rogue thought. Kitty was the last person she wanted to talk to. Without a word she turned and walked away from the living room.

"Hey! Rogue, come on!" Her feet made _pat pat _sounds against the floors as she chased after her. "What happened? The news wasn't _that_ depressing. Yet."

Rogue wiped at her face with her sleeves of her hoodie, "Ah'll be fine, Kit. It's fine." She gestured up the stairs, "Ah really need to shower. All sweaty, ya know."

Kitty scowled, stunned by how quickly Rogue was able to mask her emotions. Her face could turn from distressed to placid in mere seconds. Were there even enough muscles in the face to do that? Biology was not her strong point. She was glad computers made so much more sense. "Was it Remy?" she asked. "Did you talk to him? Where's he been all this time?"

"You know where he's been. Logan and the Professor told everyone."

"Well, yeah, but I mean that can't be all there is to it, right?"

Rogue shrugged in disinterest, "Ah really wouldn't know."

"Why the heck are you being so weird?" Kitty demanded, hands on her hips. Her bright blue eyes stared daggers into Rogue's face. "You're really starting to make me worry. It's like two years ago all over again."

_Damn, Ah'm never gonna live that down,_ Rogue thought. She had to keep her cool. She couldn't have everybody thinking she was off the rails again—though sometimes she felt like she was. The problem was, how could she tell Kitty she had slept with her ex-boyfriend? The one she wasn't even sure Kitty had gotten over? She felt like a harlot and a horrible friend.

"Ah'm tired," she said. "Ah ran into Remy out there and apparently he's living in the poolhouse now—did you know? Ah can't even talk to him anymore. He's like a stranger. Ah don't know what to think."

The hard expression on her friend's face softened. "That sounds hard," she said. "Kind of how I feel about Lance being around."

Rogue cleared her throat, "Oh?"

"I mean, obviously nothing _close_ to how you must feel. But it's just weird, right? I haven't spoken to him in years and it's weird to see him."

"Do you...still have feelings for him?"

"God, he was so annoying in that meeting, wasn't he? I don't even know why he's here. But I don't know. It brings things back..." Kitty sighed wistfully and shook her head, "Anyway, we have more important things to think about. I'm going to visit Hank at the jail right now and show him some of those files. Wanna come?"

A wave of relief washed over Rogue that they were no longer talking about Lance. "Ah'd love to but Ah feel beat... Next time?" In all the commotion she had completely forgotten Henry McCoy was still in jail. How selfish she was to forget a friend in lockup.

"I understand. I'll see you."

Rogue watched her leave and wondered if she would ever tell her about Lance. She hurried upstairs to her room and a hot shower.

The hot water was a relief on many levels. Pounding on her head like a pressure massage, shutting her off from the outside world. Just Rogue in her rectangular box of steam and cleansing water. People did not give enough credit to showers as a place for grounding oneself. As far as Rogue was concerned, she could stay in there all night if it meant she wouldn't have to deal with Remy or Lance or Essex or Selene—any of it.

After more than half an hour the tips of her fingers were beginning to dried herself off with a towel and wiped a section clear from the steamed-over mirror. Her eyes looked tired. Tonight, she planned to sleep. As she sifted through her drawer of panties and bras, she thought of Remy living in the pool house. Why had he chosen to stay here? For how long? Could she even call him at least a friend anymore? Is that all she wanted?

A knock sounded at her door. Her heat skipped a beat. Maybe he wanted to talk after that awful conversation by the pool, clear the air, _fix_ things...

"Come in."

The door slowly opened slowly as Lance walked in. He immediately noticed Rogue wearing only a tiny towel. "Uh, hey..."

She sighed and chose a random pair of underwear and began looking for clothes. "What is it, Lance."

"I just wanted to check on you..." Slowly his gaze lost altitude, wandering from her face down the line of her neck, to the hem of the towel that barely covered her torso, "...you looked tweaked out earlier."

"Ah'm up here," Rogue said, tapping the air in front of her eyes with her index and middle fingers.

Lance grinned sheepishly, "Can ya blame me?"

"For being a little pervey? Yes. And Ah'm fine."

"You don't have to pretend with me. I know it must've been weird to see that guy again after all this time. Do you want to talk about it?"

Did she? And did Lance refer to Remy as "that guy" perjoratively? Part of her wanted to jump to Remy's defense. "It wasn't the first time," she threw over her shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom. She reemerged a couple minutes later in black yoga pants and a tank top and immediately plopped down at the edge of her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest and stared at the floor.

Lance sat down beside her, "So...have you talked to him?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Because," Lance said hesitantly. He reached to touch her but changed his mind when he saw her stiffen. "I don't get you, Rogue." He sounded upset.

"What did Ah do?"  
"We kissed!"

She grew silent and continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. The reminder sent a wave of guilt flooding back into her. "Lance, whatever you want, Ah'm pretty sure Ah can't give it to you."

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't right. And Ah just...can't. Ah've got too much stuff going on to deal with someone."

"I'm not trying to be high-maintainance here. Can't blame a guy for trying to be more when it feels right from his end."

"Feels right? How can it feel right with Kitty around the corner? Have you talked to her yet?"

"Look, I know you're worried because you're her friend, but she and I grew apart years ago. I held on to the idea of her because she was the closest I'd had to any sort of real connection. But then...things changed."

Rogue nearly rolled her eyes, "Ah don't know about that. Every time you got drunk you brought her up."

"Guy's gotta have a reference point right?"

"This is awkward."  
He suddenly stood up and headed for the door. He paused at the doorknob, "You obviously have a lot on your mind, stuff to figure out. So you should do that. I just want you to know, even though we're not in X-Corps anymore, I still got your back." With a soft smile, he closed the door as he left.

Finally alone again, Rogue lay back in her bed. Since when did her life become so complicated? It had been simple for so long—find a target, plan the operation, execute the operation, find the next target. She was having trouble remembering her motives for wanting to return to Bayville, to the place it all went wrong in the first place.

She grabbed a pillow and curled up, letting the delicious exhaustion take over. Sleep came too easily. Dreams occupied her mind, but nothing vivid or gripping. She dreamt of that strange mountainous island again, except she was alone to take in its magestic beauty. Sapphire waters and stalwart mountains, lush forests—all of it wrapped a gleaming city that glowed with vibrancy, brand new, unsoiled. Where was it? Had Garbha-hsien known? Why didn't he tell her if it was important? Because she knew this island was incredibly important. Suddenly everything began shaking, the image of the island trembled in her mind until it became too dizzying to look at and she woke up. She smelled smoke, heard screams. Leaping out of bed, she knew before she even opened the door that there had been a blast in the east wing of the mansion. Had the students' powers gone haywire? Did Jamie accidentally microwave a fork again? Or was it—

Her ears adjusted when her instinct activated Logan's mutant ability of keen senses. She heard the grenade missile coming but did not have time to react. The explosion threw her from her doorway and sent her crashing through the hallway in a heap of brunt wood and plaster.

With a guttural scream of exertion, an organic steel-covered arm burst from the pile of burning rubble. Rogue broke herself free and stumbled away from the fires, her clothes in torched rags. As her skin returned to normal, her injuries became apparent. She had tapped into Piotr's powers quick enough to save her life, but not to prevent some of the cuts and bruises. She had a feeling she would be channeling Logan a lot this evening. The only problem was, it didn't work as fast for her as it did for him.

It happened again and again—explosions around the mansion. The students had panicked at first but then rallied, putting their powers and their training to use in putting fires out and protecting each other. Rogue made it to the main staircase, where Bobby was blasting ice to cool the fires. "What the HELL is happening?" he shouted through the chaos.

Rogue could hear Jubilee scream from downstairs, "The Instistute is getting blown up _again?" _Then the shuffle of students running out of the way of falling debris. A frantic scream from Amara, "Jamie!"

Rogue saw him, lying unconscious in a doorway that looked ready to collapse. She was at his side in a flash of light and burst of sulfurous smoke. But someone had beat her to it.

"Ah, sister," Kurt grinned as he lifted Jamie into his arms. "Can't beat ze bro, right?"

Rogue didn't have time to smile back. With a surge of telekinesis, she threw Kurt and Jamie out of the way just as a wooden beam crumbled and collapsed on her. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs, crushing her ribs into the floor. Smoke filled her vision and mouth. She couldn't breathe. Her injuries from the explosion earlier had not fully healed. She was weakened and was losing focus and control. Chants from outside drifted through the roar of fire and cackle of wood to her sensitive ears: "No more mutants! No more mutants!" "Go home muties!" "Die! Die!"

Then someone was there, pushing at the wooden beam but unable to move it. He knelt down beside her, one hand on the side of her face, "Chere, y' got t'concentrate. Y' got t' get y'self out o' dis. Come on!" Remy again, a strange desperation in his voice—for what, her safety? The way it used to be.

He was yelling and she could barely hear him. But she listened. Slowly she phased herself out from under the wood. It clattered to the floor. She tried to stand but the sharp pain of cracked ribs shot through her body. She collapsed to the floor with a howl of pain. Bits of burning ceiling fell around her.

"Dis no time f' a nap, Rogue," she heard him say. Oh, Remy, always the joker. She felt his arms around her, lifting her up, carrying her through fire and smoke. Heal goddamnit. Heal faster. She hated being so useless. The pain was also incredibly debilitating and annoying. But it did not interfere with her powers.

She saw them past Remy's shoulder, a scattering of male and female forms littering the lawn of the Xavier Institute. They wore shoddily mismatched pseudo-military attire, no doubt random things they had lying around at home that resembled the garb they had seen in movies. But for their motley and uninspired appearance, they had the weapons—assault rifles, grenade launchers—of those with either very convenient connections or lots of money. And they were screaming, cheering, jeering at the attack on a school, an institution full of youth.

A great and terrible anger swelled in Rogue, all her pent up frustrations and disappointments focusing on one target: the pseudo-military attackers out there. When she really thought about it, her problems existed because of people like this, because of this kind of hate, this kind of need to exert power over others, and the destructive actions that invariably followed.

She felt the clarifty wash over her like a wave, the calmness, the focus of when she knew without an iota of doubt what she wanted and had to do. It was the grace of certainty, something she was heavily bereft of lately. During her time with X-Corps, she got this feeling whenever she knew they were close to the target and she could see the trajectory of the coming course of events ending with a bad guy having a very bad day. The attackers were going to rue the moment they decided to set their sights on Xavier's Institute.

"Rogue? Chere y' hurt. Y' shouldn't..." Remy let go as she squirmed out of his arms and limped until she stood straight. He shut up then, realizing she wasn't hearing him. He followed as she moved slowly past burning heaps of wood whose smoke seeped out of the mansion through great gaping holes in the ceiling. Smoky fumes billowed out in wispy columns around her committed stride.

She stopped at what remained of the mansion's blown-out front door, facing a dozen or so of the mob.

"What she doin'?" one of them cried out.

"Lost her mind."

"Put an end to her misery, boys."

They could not know what she was capable of. The ground beneath their feet shook with a resolute fury, splitting apart and throwing earth against gravity. Shouts of surprise filled the air as some of them fell into the ever-deepening fissures. She didn't know if they were being crushed in the moving tectonic plates of the earth; she wasn't sure she cared. She could feel it in her, the desire for them to suffer. It fueled her power to shake the very earth and make it swallow them.

One sent a grenade launching toward her. With a wave of her hand, magnetism pushed the missile aside, looping it back around to explode near its sender.

"Kill her!"

"Shoot for her head!"

Suddenly the tremors stopped. The attackers struggled to re-mobilize. They reached for their guns and bombs, but dropped them as screams of terror erupted from their mouths. A couple fell to fetal positions on the grass, hugging themselves and crying for their parents like children. Others clawed at their hair, screaming at something only they could see. Some rolled and writhed on the grass from invisible tortures.

Remy realized Rogue was using Mastermind's power of illusion to give them horrific visions, and she was doing it without ostensible remorse for the suffering she was causing. He stepped in front of Rogue, took her by the shoulders, "Stop dis. Dis ain't you."

Her bright emerald eyes seemed clouded, heavy with the dark thoughts of retaliation. He knew those thoughts all too well and knew she would not cope with the guilt of torture in healthy ways. Her shoulders sagged and she leaned forward until her head rested on his shoulder.

The screaming stopped. The attackers—now sufficiently panicked—began to flee. They ran past the mansion's destroyed front gate, where news crews had already gathered. They crept carefully onto the Institute grounds, cameras filming as much as they could.

Rogue could feel the last of her energy leave. "Ah'm tired," she murmured into Remy's shoulder. "Ah'm so tired."

"S'all right, chere," he said, hugging her close. "S'all go'n' be all right."

She believed him.


End file.
